


Of Thrones and Glory

by you_guys_are_losers



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Spider-Man (Tom Holland Movies), Spider-Man - All Media Types
Genre: Arranged Marriage, Arranged Marriage AU, Dark, F/M, Fantasy AU, Magic AU, Medieval, Medieval AU, Michelle Jones - Freeform, Peter Parker - Freeform, PeterMJ - Freeform, Princess x King, Short Chapters, Slow Build, Slow Burn, Spideychelle, TW: Suicide Mention, Triggers
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-10-03
Updated: 2020-03-22
Packaged: 2020-12-01 19:14:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 23,841
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20871347
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/you_guys_are_losers/pseuds/you_guys_are_losers
Summary: Michelle Jones grows up the daughter of a fallen kingdom, and she is happy there. But war can be only kept at bay for so long. Soon, the heiress to the Enyan throne finds herself snared in a tangle of treaties, dowries, and political marriages that she has no hope of escaping. To save her people, Michelle is wed to the king of the nation that has warred with her kingdom for centuries.But everything is not as it seems on the surface. Sometimes, it takes getting caught at the center of a web to realize you're not a fly, but a spider.





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> //Hello! I don't really know how this series happened; it just sort of formed in my mind one day, and as I hammered it out it took the form of a bunch of short oneshots. 
> 
> Just as a warning, these chapters are going to be short; it's just how it works itself out to me when I write it. 
> 
> The story will also toy with some of the darker themes that women of ancient times face and still face today, and there will be mentions of violence, suicide, and mature subjects. Thank you!//

_ “Gloriam maiorum: To the glory of our ancestors.” _ This is the command that Michelle was born into as a Jones, and it is one that is meant to define her every waking thought.

Her father often uses the same creed to justify the conflict that has been escalating since Michelle’s birth. “They fought this same battle in their time,” he likes to inform Michelle and her mother from across a scarred, wooden table in the empty dining hall. “We cannot let their fight be in vain.”

Still, Michelle cannot help but question it. If the fight for territory has lingered so long that its initial reasons have almost been forgotten, then has it not been in vain all along?

According to her mother, these are not questions for her to ask. She will be happier, the woman encourages her, if she finds other ways to occupy her thoughts.

After marrying Michelle's father, the duchess took up needlework and stringed instruments herself. These occupations once soothed the bitterness of a vibrant woman who had come to live in an empty kingdom; these are the kindnesses she seeks to extend from mother to daughter. Michelle is certain that these are the hobbies her mother and father wish for her to pursue.

But though Michelle's father is a king, he is also a weak-willed man. So Michelle grows up able to do whatever she pleases, which is wander to her heart’s desire.

The castle is old, and it is not a place any court would seek to reside for long. It is too small for a long-term stay for one thing, or so she is told by a few of the servants who are old enough to remember grander days.

To Michelle, the cold, hollow edifice is massive.

In certain empty halls, she swears she can still hear the ringing of a celebratory feast in the rafters. A crackling fire babbles just out of earshot, and a harvest wind plays with the curls at the nape of her neck even indoors. No such gathering has been held there for a century at least. Still, the ghosts of the glory days linger so that Michelle can hear the popping embers over her shoulders every time she leaves the Great Hall.

In the ancient days, the castle was a glorious center of power and history. Time has left it filled with vaulted ceilings and cobwebs, and its crumbling towers pierce the gray sky like broken needles. Its winding passages lead nowhere. It is here that Michelle grows up: a world of hollow decay and heavy, silent hours spent alone.

And this? This is exactly how she prefers it.

Michelle grows up surrounded by high stone walls, rotting books, and abandoned chambers. Though it is hardly a healthy environment for a young child, Michelle manages alright. Sure, in her youth the servants often find her with a gash on a bare foot or a scraped elbow. As she grows, bruises litter her limbs from impatient explorations of forgotten rooms. When Michelle is seven, she even knocks out a tooth after taking a fall down a particularly dilapidated staircase.

Despite her falls and her various injuries, the child continues to wake up each day and continue in her pursuits. Each day brings options for a new adventure: wander some forgotten wing of the structure, sift through artifacts, or explore the grounds and the tangle of woods beyond. The few servants do not understand why she does all this, but they do not question it.

No one comments on the child at all. When they do, it is to note that no matter how bruised and battered they find her, the young girl has never appeared to cry. She does not have the time; there is too much to understand and too much mystery to unfold.

Her father is the only one who sees anything in her pastimes worthy of comment. He mentions often at the table that he does wish she would devote herself to pursuits that might develop her character. After all, when she is older, no one will wish to marry a girl who smells like the musty chambers and dense forests where she spends her time. To a ten-year-old Michelle, that sounds more like a reason to celebrate than anything else.

Michelle’s expeditions begin to assume a more sophisticated structure as she grows. Rather than allowing her whims to dictate which part of her crumbling realm she visits, she begins to take a more strategic, methodical approach to her cataloging of the castle’s secrets. Michelle starts in the nearest wing to her room and works her way through each day. No piece of molding history escapes her grasp.

A lot of them do find themselves discarded after she has thoroughly examined them. Still, Michelle never simply throws away anything based upon its haggard appearance.

Because of this, the girl gathers a rather impressive collection of objects as she grows. Broken bits of jewelry fill a worn pouch in her room; squares of tapestry that have not rotted away with the rest of their fine threading line her windowsill. Chipped vases are set on crumbling pedestals, and scraps of clothing that hide in untouched armoires begin to cover the floor of the hutch in her room.

But Michelle loves the books best, and these become better than any companion as she grows.

She brings them back to the drafty bedchamber where she generally loathes to stay. Michelle has never much enjoyed her time spent there; the room is always pretending. The vaulted ceilings and haughty four-poster are loudly juxtaposed against the threadbare blankets and lack of furniture. This has always been displeasing to the girl who loves things for what they truly are. But the walls and ceilings are more bearable when they melt away into another plane entirely. It is in this realm of nothing and everything that Michelle begins to spend her hours, joined by the books she collects from forgotten rooms. Michelle lives out epic poems, puzzles through philosophy volumes, and revels in the mysterious and the twisted of the novels she has managed to secure.

Unfortunately, this talent for reading is not lost on her father the king.

Michelle’s father begins to take a more vested interest in the actions of his daughter as she ages, and so he does not hire any of the private tutors most young royals study with.

“Unnecessary,” he states. The servants whisper that the word “expensive” might be more accurate. The monarch is too proud to admit to this. Instead, he cites her independent motivation to read as a justification for giving her volumes of his choosing to study. Michelle speeds through them, though they bore her senseless. The books contain a variety of subjects that her father wishes her to pursue. Some of them are propaganda that speaks to the glory of a “virtuous woman." He assigns her the tragedies that follow love ballads of a forbidden nature, as well as materials on the role of a good wife.

She reads them, but very rarely without leaving a tangle of sarcastic annotations in the margins.

The women he wishes her to emulate are pliable. Michelle does not scorn them for their femininity; she is feminine in her own right as she ages from seventeen to eighteen and older. Michelle is intuitive and perceptive. She sees more clearly than anyone the value of cleverness over the brute strength. After all, have not hotheaded decisions of diplomacy kept the kingdom locked in conflict for years? But the literature scorns such traits, undervaluing them.

So Michelle takes to the abandoned wings of the fortress to escape. Her explorations take her further and further away from the central rooms of the castle. After all, it is there her father spends his days allowing his council to pour poison into his ear and to empty the kingdom’s coffers.

In the furthest abandoned rooms, Michelle makes herself a library with books that are more to her liking. There is a makeshift laboratory in the room beside it where she studies what she wishes. The young woman recreates many of the experiments that she reads of. Sometimes, she conducts her own to various ends, recording the results in an excited scrawl to read on an uninspired day.

It is hidden away in these rooms, free to sort out the secrets of the universe by herself, that Michelle learns to separate herself from the women in her father’s books. In these rooms, nothing else matters. There is no pointless series of conflicts draining the kingdom dry. There is no mother who is little more than a trophy. Most of all, there is no father who thinks of her the same way he thinks of his peoples’ crops and cattle: as his, and his alone, to benefit from.

These rooms are a refuge, and they do their job so well that Michelle barely notices the shrinking number of servants. She does not pay attention to the lessening amounts of food or the fact that luxuries once available cannot be obtained. Knowledge alone sustains her, and it will be all she needs for the rest of her days.

But war cannot be evaded forever, and not all casualties take place on the battlefield. 


	2. II.

Michelle knows that even she is not safe when she returns to her room at the crack of dawn and finds her mother awaiting her there. The woman, whose proud brow is furrowed into a mournful countenance, does not speak for a moment as she beholds her daughter.

Michelle does not need to ask why her mother has come. The sinking in her chest tells her everything her mother's lips do not. Michelle allows the crumpled sheets of notes in her hands to flutter to the floor like withered, crumbling leaves.

“When?” She does not remember allowing the word to leave her lips, but it does nonetheless.

Her mother purses her lips and brushes a lank curl that resembles Michelle’s own away from her brow. The strong, proud woman is wearing away, and it shows. Her eyes are glassy from exhaustion, her hair falls limp, and the gown that was once fine seems to hang from her shoulders. Her mother’s posture has slumped, and the queen wears exhaustion in every line of her face.

“I did what I could to hold him off,” the queen murmurs, her voice a bitter apology as she looks upon Michelle.

In that moment, time slows for Michelle. She is aware of every little thing about herself: the loose, old clothing that she has taken to wearing, left behind by one of the male servants, her mess of curls, wild from an experiment in the humid laboratory, and the cold of the stone floor pressing up through the worn soles of her boots.

Though her mother wears the circlet and gown of a queen and Michelle wears the garb of a dismissed groundskeeper, they both know as they look upon one another that they are one and the same. They are women in a world governed by men, and they do not have a choice.

“Is it for military support?” Michelle’s voice is quiet, but it is cold as steel. The anger within is not petty or childish-- it is biting as frost, and precise as a dagger’s point. “Is my hand a barter for a few more soldiers to die at the border?”

Michelle has expected a scenario of this sort for some time. She is no fool; she knows the conflict with Terygen, the neighboring kingdom, has not gone well as of late. Their kingdom is wealthier, with access to many more ports than Michelle’s own, landlocked Enya. The enemy military is more formidable as well, and Terygen has acquired more and more territory on its own borders in recent conquests. Its network of alliances is strong, and so with each new battle, the odds have stacked against them. This battle has been uphill for longer than her father and the men of his council are willing to admit.

It is the slight tremor in her mother’s lips and the gleam of fear in her brown eyes that causes a cold chill to spread through Michelle.

“The war is over, Michelle. We have lost.”

The floor pitches beneath Michelle’s feet, and cold stone meets her knees before she even has a chance to fight to stay standing. Her mother kneels to the floor beside her, the fading violet of her skirts flaring like a warrior’s cape as soft hands find Michelle’s own. Their fingers are so different-- that is what she focuses on. Her mother’s hands are smooth, soft, where Michelle’s own are hardened, torn, and skinny. Michelle grips her mother’s slender fingers, searching them with her own until she finds a point of familiarity: the toughened tips of the queen’s fingers, firm and callused from hours spent at a lute or a harp, spinning sorrows and struggles into song.

“Breathe.” The queen’s voice is authoritative in the way her father’s will never be, and so Michelle forces a breath into her lungs. It is harsh and grating against her throat as she manages to stop the room from spinning.

“And he still wishes to marry me off?” Michelle doesn’t have time for scorn-- the words are quick, deliberate, and insistent.

“Do we not have more pressing issues to attend to? Our borders were pressed back by the conflict, too far. We were always fighting to lose, but we at least needed to gain back the ground lost.” Michelle may not approve of her father’s military actions, but she is no fool. She has probably read more of battle and warfare than he himself, though he did not deem it fit to include in her mandatory reading regimen.

“He does have greater issues to manage,” her mother admits, allowing her daughter to press against her fingertips. Michelle’s mother inhales, and all the breath seems to spill out of her body as she speaks. “That is precisely why he has chosen now.”

Michelle’s eyes snap to her mother’s, widening a fraction of an inch. There is only one marriage proposal that could be made in the face of such a loss, and the very idea steals all breath from Michelle’s lungs. Silence passes between them, and though her face remains stoic, Michelle’s grip loosens slightly on her mother’s hand.

“He cannot have accepted.” The words are swift and steady despite the tremor in her hands. “That would be a foolish thing to do in the wake of a surrender.” 

“And yet the young king accepted your father’s proposal, and he seeks to honor it swiftly,” her mother murmurs. Michelle’s head rings hollowly, and as she struggles to stand and step away from her mother, the queen does not stop her. 

“How swiftly?” The words hardly sound like her own anymore, as if Michelle is hearing herself speak underwater. 

“In two weeks’ time, you shall be brought to his palace,” her mother replies. The queen rises, too, and her eyes do not hold sympathy or worry. They hold fortitude as Michelle looks into them, and she cannot look away. 

Because as their eyes find one another, Michelle knows that they are one and the same. Her mother did what was required of her. 

Michelle will too. 


	3. III.

_ Two weeks. _

It’s one thing to hear it dropping from her mother’s lips in the quiet of her bedchamber, a place that Michelle has loathed for as long as she can remember. It’s another to wake up to it. The reality of the situation hangs heavily over the silent halls as she walks through them. Each of her footsteps whispers, _ “Two weeks, two weeks.” _The sight of unfamiliar guards positioned outside on the watchtowers only reinforces this. The guards of Terygen wear red and blue-- a far cry from Enya’s own yellow and cerulean. 

The servants cast Michelle mournful glances as they pass her, and each one causes the ache in her throat to grow more pronounced. They never so much as looked at her before… Only hours ago, Michelle was a ghost in her own home: a strange oddity that was commented on every so often, but influenced little. Now, her body has solidified; what was once transparents is now tangible flesh and sinew. 

They understand the sacrifice demanded of her, and they mourn her as one already dead. 

For the first three days, Michelle does not leave her makeshift rooms. She sleeps there, takes no meals, works herself senseless; she is as one reanimated from the dead in her movements, and desperation fuels her exhausted body as she works at what once meant everything and now feels like nothing. No matter how fervently she pursues projects that once brought life to her, every effort she makes only makes her feel more hollow. 

One of the maids is finally sent to look for her and to make sure that she has not harmed herself. The sight which the poor girl finds is almost worse than a bloated corpse in a corner: Michelle stands upright, and the old clothing she wears hangs off of her body. Her hair is disheveled into a hopeless tangle, her skin has the pallor of one ill, and her eyes are glassy and unseeing as those of the body the maid had so dreaded discovering. 

The next five days, Michelle is confined to the room she loathes so much. She sleeps for two of the days, and the other three a maid brings her broth and sleeping tonics, as well as draughts for her nerves. Though Michelle manages to pour the various brews into her chamber pot when the maids are not looking, she is not able to escape the treatment her father demands of her: three more days confined to her bed. 

Michelle has nothing to occupy herself with for these. There are no books to read, no rooms to explore, no journals to write in. All she can do is watch the servants as they move around her room, packing her few worn gowns and a few different toiletries and documents into trunks. She has a small dowry, but she will not see any of that; she knows that a good deal of it has been spent on the war effort, and the rest will be given directly to the king of Terygen. Though she has very little to bring with her, several trunks are packed anyway. 

Her father likely requested it so that he can send Michelle appearing a wealthy, foreign princess. Michelle decides to use the space for another purpose. 

After her sentence is up, Michelle returns to the rooms. However, rather than continuing her experience in a vain search for the shelter they once provided, she turns to another task. The rooms are no longer a shelter; even they have been robbed from her in this war, turned into a shell of what they were. 

Some people collect shells. 

It is for this reason that Michelle devotes herself, over the next three days, to packing the remaining space of the trunks with all she can bring from her rooms. The books go first; the trunks are made heavy with old, rotting volumes, which she knows her father will not mind. If her luggage seems heavy, it will only further persuade the king that he has not made a poor choice in his bride. After most of her library has been transferred, Michelle turns to her collection of lost artifacts. Old, worn pieces of clothing are loaded into the trunks atop the faded gowns she has barely worn, and broken necklaces, wrapped bits of china and pewter, old wooden carvings, and more treasures find themselves heaped atop the possessions that Michelle is supposed to value. 

She prefers her graveyard of secrets, and so all of the things that Michelle values the most within it are heaped into the trunks. It is a distraction from the stares of the servants and the occasional guard patrols that wander the halls in red and blue. But when the trunks are filled and three days remain, Michelle finds herself in search of another diversion. 

Her own library is packed away, and so Michelle finds herself searching the library of her father. There, she scours every book she can of Terygen, desperate. Her actions are those of a drowning woman who, knowing her fate, attempts to swallow water to prepare. 

Of its monarchy, she learns a few interesting things. The king prior to the current one was named Benjamin, for one. His death, however, seems to have been recent, and Michelle can only find one reference to King Benjamin’s heirs: he and his wife were unable to bear children, and have no direct descendants. Michelle’s new task becomes to search for the name and history of the one she is going to wed, but it proves more difficult than intended. 

Her father has not paid much attention to updating his library; most of the documents coming in and out of the fortress have gone to his council room. She could always request the name of her father, one of his advisors, or even her mother. However, Michelle does not dare even consider such things. She wishes to see nothing of her father. 

If he had no qualms about selling her as a trophy to one who bested him, she does not wish to set eyes on his face again. 

Michelle avoids her mother for the opposite reason. If the servants’ sorry gazes are enough to make Michelle’s throat close, she knows that the grief that would come from seeing her mother would render her incapable of completing her goal. No, she cannot ask a question of the queen that will move both to tears. 

Her last days here will not be ones of a snivelling prisoner. 

Instead, Michelle searches any book that even mentions Terygen. For once, her books seem to fail her. The name of King Benjamin’s successor is nowhere to be found. Along the way, Michelle is blinded to all other words. She reads nothing of the enemy kingdom’s culture, though it is chronicled beneath her nose. This would only complicate matters, and Michelle knew better than to further tangle an already twisted situation. 

When she finally finds the answer, Michelle is not in the library. She is not in her empty safe haven, or even in the rooms she so dreads; she is in the halls of Jones Castle, walking as unseen as she used to be. 

There is one day left until her departure, and Michelle has been wearing the same clothing for almost two and a half days. She is garbed like the meanest of the servants, since she wears more of her abandoned clothing, and her curls are held back from her face by a cloth that only makes her more invisible to anyone who associates prominence with an eye-catching appearance.

She has taken to dressing in such a manner over the past few weeks not only for convenience, but also because it keeps her safe from Terygen’s guards. They would not hurt her if they knew who she was, of course. If they were to do so, she knew they would be cruelly punished for damaging their king’s prize, especially when such a union is likely the talk of their kingdom. It is unorthodox, unexpected, and a crowning jewel in their victory. However, she does not want their stares; she does not want them to return to their wives and children crowing stories of how they saw the king’s trophy, of how they kept her in her home where she was prepared for their king, of how she was reduced to walking her own halls like a fugitive. 

She is passing a few of them when she realizes they are conversing, and about her. The realization sickens her, but Michelle’s exhaustion is strong and persuasive. She finds herself ducking behind a crumbling column, listening as they wander to the end of the hall. 

“-a damn shame no one’s caught a glimpse of her yet,” one of the men was saying. His retreating form was tall and broad, and his dark hair was smooth and neat from behind. “Then we might have something to report back to him about the girl. He would be better prepared for the coming weeks if he knew something of her.” 

“Mmm,” hums the other, his voice sounding almost warning. He is shorter, and his form is more compact, but he is clothed more finely than the other, who is in armor. “But you know he did not ask for any information about her, and he has not requested anything in regards to her other than that she arrives safely at the palace. We are not required to meddle.” 

“But would he not want to know more than just her name?” presses the first, sounding almost incredulous. “He is going to be legally bound to the girl, for the love of the crown.” 

Michelle’s blood runs cold. He does not want to know anything of her? 

An image is forming in her mind of a man, and he looks too much like her father. He intends to keep her locked away in gilded chambers and corsets at best. He cares not for passion, affection, or sacrifice; he will take lovers, and he will see to it that his needs are fulfilled. He will look upon her as nothing more than a tool used to maintain his power, and she will turn to stone on the pedestal he places her on. 

“Bradley... We cannot know what he wants; it is not our place to know,” the latter says, his voice low, hesitant, and warning all at once. “King Peter made the decision, and he is going to honor it. That is all we need to know. Now, for the arrangements for tomorrow…” 

As they turn a corner, the guards’ voices fade to a murmur. Michelle does not notice; she is frozen behind her pillar, still as a statue. Her fingers grip the curve in the stone until her knuckles turn white, and her nails scrape against the worn, uneven surface. 

Michelle does not notice. She cannot move, cannot breathe, cannot think. 

There is one thought in her mind only, and one name on her frozen lips: 

_ King Peter. _


	4. IV.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //Hello, everyone! Thank you so much for all the positive attention this AU is receiving. I'm going to work my best to get it up as quickly and as powerfully as I can! Just warning you guys, though, it's going to be a bit of a slow-burn. It's easier for me and works better for the flow if the chapters are shorter, but things are going to really get moving soon. 
> 
> Thank you for all being so kind, and I hope you like this vulnerable moment between MJ and her mother!

Michelle does not sleep the night before her departure.

The room that she has loathed for so long is now Michelle’s last remaining defense-- the only place that no one will come to remind her of her fate. In the morning, that will change, but Michelle would not dream of sleeping away her last night of peace in her home. Instead, she kneels by a window ledge with a pen and a crumpled sheet of parchment, and for several hours she does nothing but preserve the emotions and thoughts that she wishes to give to her mother. None of it will be said when they part the next morning; her enemies will watch, searching for any sign of weakness. She cannot give them such a thing.

They will find no weakness in her, only a steely, desperate strength.

But they are not watching her here, for the last time, and so Michelle fills up the parchment with a million scrawled sentences and dark blots. When it is finished, it is late in the evening. The letter is folded beneath her pillow, someplace she is certain the servants will find it. Her mother’s name is written on the outside, and so she knows it will find its way into the right hands. She also knows that they will not dream of examining the contents not meant for them. In the wake of what Michelle is doing for them, it is unthinkable.

Once this is finished, Michelle’s remaining hours are spent watching the familiar skies over the forest behind the castle. She has memorized these skies over the years-- every constellation, every crag that juts up into the expanse from beyond the forest. She has always preferred the night, always spent her time searching the stars for answers that her mother and father are unable to give her.

Will they be faithful to her now, or will they forget her once she is far away?

The inky black of the night begins to fade into watery gray, after what might have been moments or years of staring. The first hint of this lightening fills Michelle with dread, and at first, she prays she might have imagined it. However, reality does not bend to her prayers, and so they fall upon closed ears. Gray light seeps in through the windows, only further removing any color from the dull room in which she seeks refuge. Michelle does not leave her window, kneeling on the cold floor as she looks out over the harsh, unforgiving kingdom she has made her own.

Will it be lost to her forever?

It is hers, now-- almost. This is what she thinks on as the sun rises, barely visible through the thick clouds. Her father has no heir apart from her: no cousins, no brothers, no court, no distant, titled relative. This kingdom, when he is gone, will be her birthright. And, rather than allowing her to take it into her own hands, her father has chosen to hand it off to his enemy in exchange for a pretend peace. Her kingdom, in his hands, is nothing more than a piece of currency in a bloody exchange.

Where is all his talk of honor now?

The cold, quiet anger that rises up in her chest is all that Michelle has left to defend herself with. It is this that she clings to, though she almost immediately loses it altogether when the door to her bedroom opens.

Her mother’s face is a portrait of quiet agony that Michelle was not prepared for. She almost breaks then and there.

The queen is dressed in an old gown of black, one that she has taken in herself to hide its ill-fitting spots and to tuck away patches that are faded and worn. The circlet around her mother’s head is not what makes her look regal as she steps into the room; it is the way that, from head to toe, the queen holds herself with the pride and dignity of a seasoned warrior. Even in her agony, Michelle’s mother is strong, and she knows that there will be no tearful goodbyes today.

“Mother,” Michelle breathes, inclining her head. The formality is used as an attempt to hide the stinging in her eyes and to force it back. “I thought you were one of the servants.”

“They are busy making the preparations for your departure,” the queen replies, her voice quiet and composed as she steps into the room. “I told them I would help prepare you myself.”

Michelle notices, for the first time, that which her mother is holding. A gown of deep green cloth, finer than most of the gowns that Michelle owns, is folded in her hands. A jacket rests over her arm, and a set of boots rest on top of the fabric; a comb and some dark ribbon are on top of the boots. All of it, though it is clearly not new, is meticulously cared for.

“Those are not mine,” Michelle breathes, her eyes rising back to her mothers’ again. It is like staring into a mirror. Even in her age, the queen is the source of any beauty Michelle can claim for her own, and she prays that she has the same nobility. She will need it, today.

“They are mine, from many years ago,” the queen confesses. She brushes past Michelle, moving to the old, empty vanity that the servants helped Michelle clear out the evening before. There, she sets the comb, the boots, and the ribbon.

A shrinking suspicion fills Michelle, and she presses further slightly. “Before the King?”

“Before the King,” her mother confirms, a slight, composed smile crossing her lips as she glances at Michelle. “I used to travel quite often when I was young. You shall likely be given many such gowns when you settle into life in Terygen. They say the court is lively there.”

As Michelle’s mother lays the jacket out so it does not crease, Michelle moves to join her mother in arranging the materials. “I shall not wear them, so long as I have this one.” The words are quiet but sharp as Michelle sets the boots on the ground, and when she straightens she finds her mother smiling at her with glassy eyes.

“I should expect nothing less.”

It is the most sudden movement that Michelle has ever seen the queen make when she reaches for her daughter. Michelle finds her face cupped in her mother’s hands as a kiss is pressed to her forehead, and an exhale hitches in her throat as she presses her eyes shut. For just an instant, Michelle allows the pain in her throat to be felt. She takes in the soft hands on her skin, the kiss that has been given many times since she was young: whenever she fell, when she had a disappointing excursion, when she was worn down from a long lecture across the dinner table.

This is going to be the last one, and Michelle knows it with an awful finality.

When Michelle’s mother steps away, she lets out a soft breath and moves to undo the buttons of the men’s shirt Michelle is wearing. Before her daughter can protest, the queen raises a finger to hush her. “You will be aided in dressing often, once you arrive,” she warns, letting out a breath. “Allow me to help you, my brave one. Just this once.”

Rather than speaking and revealing the constricted nature of her throat, Michelle only nods.

It is strange, to be aided in dressing. Her mother produces the proper undergarments from within the folds of the fabric, things that Michelle has not worn since she was just reaching her adolescence and her father went through a phase of demanding she did so. In the end, Michelle is grateful for her mother’s help. She would not know where to begin with the corset, which presses unpleasantly against her ribcage, and the petticoat is larger than she had expected it to be. Stays would be impossible to do for herself, and they make it difficult to breathe. All this must be done before the gown is brought over her head, and the queen takes time in brushing down the fabric and buttoning it.

Michelle closes her eyes shortly into the process, simply listening. There is a rhythm to her mother’s precise movements: swishing of fabric, the shrieking of laces, the snapping of clasps. It is quiet and it is firm, and it is all of the traits that Michelle will miss most from her mother.

After she has finished with the gown, the queen begins to comb out Michelle’s hair. The sensation brings an ache to Michelle’s eyes again, for it reminds her of the times in her youth when her mother liked to do the very same thing. They have the same hair, and so her mother’s fingers are gentle and deft as they smooth the tangles that days of dread and panic have created. It is ironic, how in such a short time her mother can erase all traces of Michelle’s internal plight from her appearance.

After a short time of weaving locks of hair, the queen finally clears her throat. Gentle hands turn Michelle to face the dusty mirror, and when Michelle’s eyes find herself, she barely recognizes the one staring back at her.

She looks just like her mother.

Her dark hair has been combed and arranged into a knot meant to keep all of her curls from her neck and shoulders. The style is composed and it is regal and it is severe, all the things that both women know Michelle will need to be in the coming hours. She is garbed in the riding gown and jacket, and the deep, hunter green of the fabric reminds Michelle painfully of the woods she spent her childhood running through. The collar of the jacket clasps around her neck, and the garment is all buttons and crisp lines and regality. The boots, though they are clearly used to wear, are polished and shining where they poke out of the skirts, and Michelle would not have any of it any other way.

When she turns to thank her mother, she finds tears streaming down the queen’s face. They are swift and silent, and neither one acknowledges them as Michelle steps forward for one last embrace. She clings to her mother, and for once, the queen puts aside her dignity and holds her with the same desperation.

“I am not ready.”

“I know, my love. I know. I was not ready, either... I never would have been ready.”

“I do not know their ways.”

“You will learn.”

“I know not how a court operates, mother. I am used to being alone... I will want to be alone.”

“You will learn, my love, how to be alone in a crowded room. That is the only space you shall have to breathe, and you will learn to cherish it.”

“He will be like the King.”

Her mother is silent, but her arms grip Michelle even closer, almost instinctively out of protection. For a moment, the quiet stretches between them, and then the words that leave her mother’s lips break the silence into a million little pieces, though they are but a whisper.

“I pray, for your sake, that he is not.”


	5. V.

When Michelle leaves her room, she does so standing tall and alone. Her mother is not permitted to be by her side, a fact which she barely manages to inform Michelle without allowing her voice to break. She does not have to explain why. 

“The King’s orders.” “Other duties to attend to.” Whatever reason her father has conjured up this time, both women know the reason. Michelle is to be handed off before most of the soldiers of Terygen who remain in the palace, and for that reason, the King wishes to be the center of attention. There is no room, in his mind, for any woman in the sea of men who will be waiting. If it was possible, Michelle is certain he would attempt to hand her off without her presence entirely. 

For once, the halls are devoid of the footsteps of soldiers as Michelle walks them. She knows the most direct way to the front of the castle, but she does not take it. This is her last time walking the halls that have raised her. Even if they were forbidding and hollow and chilled, they still guided her with hands as unchanging and reliable as she could have hoped for. She will be as unrelenting and austere as they are, even if she is parted from them. This is the oath that rests upon her lips as she steps through the hall one last time, her steps commanding and confident where they once were tripping and childish. 

The front steps of the palace have been avoided by Michelle since she was just old enough to understand what they were. They are the most populated area of the palace, even though few visitors come nowadays; from the distant window of her makeshift library, she has always seen at least a few soldiers or servants crawling over the steps like ants. 

Now, when Michelle steps onto them, they are filled with more people than she has ever seen in one place before. 

The guards of Terygen line the steps, but they also flood the road that leads up to the castle in a sea of red and blue. It reminds Michelle of when she used to hunt for stems of elderberries in the wood; she always knew them by the flash of red that managed to pierce through the deep, blue clumps. 

Her father stands at the top of the steps, nearest to her. He is clothed in finery, in deep, rich velvet that almost makes Michelle laugh. They have barely had enough firewood for the servants for years; they cannot afford such clothing. Of _course_ her father’s ego before their enemy would prompt him to do something so fiscally irresponsible as this. 

Michelle’s eyes barely have time to travel the rest of the scene-- a trio of carriages, one of which is open and waiting at the foot of the steps, many guards on horseback, a group of people from the village who are separated from the affair by a line of guards-- before her father’s words jerk her gaze away from her surroundings and back to him. 

“My jewel.” 

The words, falling from his lips, sound as hollow as Michelle feels. She can hardly look upon him without feeling her chest tighten. His eyes, which are narrow and brown like her own, have no smile lines. His face is worn, but it is not worn into the gentleness that age can sometimes bring to a face. No; his lines and wrinkles are the results of erosion. They are caused by anger and greed coursing over his face so frequently that they have carved a path into his skin, one that will never be erased. These lines are arranged into a false expression of affection as he reaches for her, something that causes Michelle to freeze in her steps. A shadow crosses her father’s face, but it is quickly righted as he takes a few steps towards her, his arms coming around her back. One hand comes to rest at the base of her neck, hidden by the knot of curls there. 

It is masterful, really; he is learning from the serpentine actions of his advisors, then. To the crowd, it appears as though he is giving his daughter a tender embrace. They cannot see the way his fingers grasp the place where her head meets her skull, locking her in place. 

Michelle stiffens in his arms, her skin crawling from the mere proximity. For a moment, she forgets that she is before a crowd-- everything in her screams that she needs to pull away, to put as much distance between herself and this man as she can. However, her father only holds her closer as her whole body clenches. His mouth moves to her ear, and she is certain that to the watching guards it appears as though he is murmuring the words of a father parting ways with his daughter. “If you move, you will live to regret it.” 

Chills rise on the back of Michelle’s neck, and for a moment, her body begs her to relax. She can put on an act for a moment, can she not? After all, that is what she is going to have to do for the rest of her life. It is what will be expected of her, and at this moment, it is what will force him to stop touching her and quit the crawling of her skin. It would be so easy to just obey. 

Her mother’s face flashes before her eyes. 

A woman, vibrant and kind and noble to her very core, who has spent her whole life obeying. She gave up everything for a man she knew would give her nothing… And she has spent the remainder of her years doing everything she can to give her everything to Michelle. She has done all in her power to free Michelle from her father for as long as she can, and maybe she has failed. 

But Michelle can pick up the fight for her. 

For a moment, Michelle remains frozen in the embrace. Her breath hitches in her throat as she tells herself that which she has always known: he is weak. He is a coward, he is incapable of managing resistance. 

He will crumble at the first hint of a storm on the wind, and it is for that reason that Michelle pulls away slightly, her eyes meeting his own. He is taller and he looks down his nose at her with irises the same brown as hers, but her eyes burn with fire his never will. When she speaks, the words are quiet and bite like a dagger. 

“Will I?” 

His eyes widen, and for a dangerous moment, Michelle knows that she has won. His hand loosens on her neck, and Michelle steps away from him so that his embrace drops. There is a split second where they stand, slightly parted, and Michelle’s heart hammers as she waits for the people to realize what has happened. 

And then, a voice is breaking the silence, and all eyes are on the speaker. “Right this way, Your Highness. The carriage is ready and waiting.” 

Michelle turns her gaze to the one who spoke, and she finds one of the men she encountered in the halls the day that she learned the name of the king. He is the shorter of the two, the one who had urged the other to simply focus on their orders rather than questioning after her. He is a bit stout, wearing clothes of red and blue, clad a little meaner than a courtier and a little finer than the guard, and his dark hair is combed back beneath his hat. His rounded face shows a few smile lines around his eyes. 

For a moment, Michelle swears that his dark eyes are filled with what is meant to be assurance. However, he then turns and offers a small smile to the surrounding guard, almost completely erasing the tension of the moment as they incline their heads to her. The man, who appears to be roughly her own age, gestures to the open carriage. The guards clear the way, making a clear path for her. 

Michelle does not spare her father a glance as she steps forward, the enemy on either side. 

Her heart hammers as she approaches the vehicle, which is crafted and furnished more finely than anything she has seen in her life. It is not pretending, like her room-- it is the real thing, and it only makes her chest flutter more. The guards dip their heads to her as she passes, something that makes the blood roar in her ears. 

She has only ever seen people do that for her father. 

There is a man at the side of the carriage, another one of the guards, and as Michelle’s eyes find his face she realizes it is familiar. He has light brown skin with golden undertones, and he stares at her with dark eyes that are filled with awe. She knows immediately after he opens his mouth who he is: the other guard who spoke of her in the halls. 

“You truly are as beautiful as they say, Your Highness.” As he extends a hand to help her into the carriage, his voice is smooth and flattering. Michelle finds herself overwhelmed with the strange urge to laugh; maybe it is caused by the juxtaposition of these words, meant to curry her favor, with the transactional language he previously used in regards to her. 

For a moment, Michelle pauses at the foot of the carriage, and a small smile curves on her lips. The gleam in her eyes, however, is not one of pleasure. It is the glimmer of cold amusement, of having caught him in meaningless words and ideas. 

“And therefore, I have value?” Her response is soft, and it cannot be heard by anyone who is not in the immediate vicinity. 

The smooth expression on the guard’s face melts away, but he does not dare look away from her. The eyes widen, and for a moment she can tell he is flailing-- until an expression of forced politeness takes hold of his face, and he attempts to right himself. “I-I did not mean to insult-” 

“What would you say if I were not lovely, and still dared to ascend the throne of your kingdom? Or would you only voice your opinions when my back was turned?” Michelle’s words are not cruel and prodding. Instead, they are methodical, more of the nature of the things she used to write in the margins of her notes when she was conducting an experiment-- and now, as she stares at him, it is as though she is looking at a specimen through a glass vial. His mouth opens and shuts a few more times, but no words come out. Michelle lets out a soft hum. 

“It is a good thing I am beautiful, then.” 

For a moment, Michelle could swear she hears a stifled laugh from behind her. When she turns, however, she is greeted only with the face of the quasi-nobleman who managed to smooth over the tension with her father. Is she mistaken, or is that the gleam of an amused co-conspirator in his eyes? 

Before she can grow to question it, Michelle brushes past the guard who is still gaping like a trout. Though it is difficult in her skirts and stays, Michelle uses every ounce of strength in her body to hand herself into the carriage. How she manages to do so without stepping on her skirts or toppling over is anyone’s guess, but she still makes it into the vehicle. 

A breath of relief leaves her body as soon as she is out of sight of the majority of the crowd. A bit of tension remains, but she knows this will be resolved once she closes the door. Michelle is just leaning to do this when someone else is handed into the carriage: the young man of her own age with the round face and kind eyes. He nods in her direction with a small smile and then moves to shut the door, and Michelle’s heart sinks. 

Of course. She had forgotten that, among the things lost to this war, the luxury of being in her own company was one of them. 

“Your Highness, are you quite comfortable?” The young man’s voice drags her from her train of thought, and she turns to look upon his face. It seems to be slightly more jovial as it looks upon her, and his tone is gentle. It is an attempt to stir up warmth in Michelle, and she loathes the fact that it almost works. 

“You need not worry about my comfort. It cannot be decided by a single carriage.” She keeps her words cold, distant. As the carriage begins to move, she stares out the window at the building that holds her entire childhood, eyes seizing upon every detail. 

Whenever did it grow to look so small? 

Her company begins to speak again. Michelle does not look in his direction, for she already knows what he is doing: he is attempting to alleviate the awkwardness, the same way that the guard who tried to hand her in had done. 

“Of course, Your-” 

“Please do not say it again.” 

Her words are still composed, but there is a slight tension in them near the end. It is not a tension towards him, but rather the result of a tightening in her throat at the title. She has almost never been addressed in such a manner by anyone but a few of the newer servants, and it feels foreign upon her ears. Everything feels foreign, now, and though Michelle does not want to show it, she knows she needs a moment to just breathe. 

She is expecting the nobleman to continue to speak, or to urge her to change her mind, or even to gape like the other man did. However, he simply falls silent, a sound which is sweet as the finest music to Michelle’s ears. When she glances over, she finds that he is paying her no mind. He is almost pointedly staring out the window, keeping his gaze averted. 

Is he being sensitive to her wish to be left alone? Despite herself, Michelle finds her guard lowering just slightly. 

The carriages continue on, and soon the palace is out of sight. They are moving along the country, but they are doing so quite swiftly despite the deteriorated state of the roads in Michelle’s kingdom. Her partner in travel spoke the truth: the horses are swift, and she can tell by peering at the animals who are leading the carriage behind them. She spends what might be a quarter-hour in silence, simply watching the countryside go by before the young man speaks again. 

“We will take short stop tonight, at the estate of one of our nobles where you are free to bathe and change.” He still does not look at her as he speaks, though now he appears slightly more relaxed in doing so. Instead, the nobleman is fiddling with the hem of his sleeve, a quirk that Michelle would not have expected from someone like him and is almost soothed by. “Then, we will begin on our way again tomorrow.” 

For a moment, a question rolls around in Michelle’s head. The appropriate time for a response has nearly passed before she finally queries, “Must we stop at the estate tonight?” 

It is this question that brings his eyes to her once more, though the gaze does not make Michelle uncomfortable. It does not hold awe or flattery or anything false; he just looks plain dumbstruck. “I-I suppose we could just keep moving,” he finally voices, though his voice is a bit bemused. 

“I would prefer that.” 

Michelle has returned to her gazing out the window, but this time he seems determined to press on. “You do not even know where we are going.” There is a slight note of disbelief, and the fact that he does not bother to stifle it prompts Michelle to peer back at him. 

“To your palace, I presume.” The guess is simple, and calculated-- the journey will be long, and she is prepared for it… At least, she was before she was confronted with such a resolute stranger to share the journey with.

“No, no.” Understanding fills the man’s face, and he raises a hand and gestures in order to emphasize that she has misunderstood. 

Michelle’s eyebrows shoot up at the contradiction. It would not make sense… Why would they go anywhere but the place that she is intended to spend her new life? She is so vexed by the thought that she forgets to keep composed before the individual. “What?” 

“We are not going to the royal palace. At least, not yet.” 

“Why would your king seek to have me anywhere else?” 

“We are going to a seaside estate, Your-” A pointed look from Michelle causes the man to catch himself, and he inhales and lets out his breath with a sheepish grin. She does not appreciate how genuine and pure the action is; it makes it harder to distrust him. “Right. We are going to a palace by the ocean, only just over the border.” 

“I do not understand.” Michelle’s mind whirs. A seaside estate? She has never seen the ocean, only read of it. What will it be like? For a moment, her curiosity distracts her from the matter at hand, and she forces herself to focus. Perhaps, by subverting her expectations, the king hopes to unsettle her into complacency. 

If that is the truth, however, the young man does not own up to it. “King Peter thought you would prefer it there… Well, that it would be an easier adjustment, at least.” 

Michelle fixes him with a quizzical stare, one that has returned to the cold, calculated front that she had forgotten to maintain with him for a moment. Why should it matter to him if the adjustment was easier for her? An adjustment was an adjustment… There had to be an ulterior motive. Besides, how would it be any easier? There was no sea in her kingdom. 

The man, seeming to sense her train of thought, plows ahead to explain. “The estate is by a great wood, just like your castle, and the climate is very similar to it is here-- it changes, near the Royal Palace. It’s less forested, and more of a mountainous area by the ocean. But the seaside palace is a mix of the two: there are woods, and there is water. The King thought it would be helpful if you had time to adjust.” 

Woods… Despite herself, her heart lulls into a more soothing rhythm at the thought. Perhaps, when she looks out her window there, the wood will look almost familiar in the dark. Michelle immediately catches that train of thought, however, and shoves it deep down into her chest. 

Still, there is no harm in asking a few more questions. “How far is the estate from here?” 

“Terygen is known for the breeding of our horses, and they are some of the quickest beasts on the earth. They will bring us to the estate in just over two days, not counting however much time we spend stopping to rest, and of course to give you time to change-” 

“I do not wish to stop, then.” Michelle does not remember giving herself permission to say those words, but they have left her before she even has a chance of stopping them. 

The boy blinks at her a few times, but the fiddling with his sleeve resumes as he manages to find words. “What about clothing? Your father saw to it that a gown was left for you to change into.” He gestures to a parcel beneath her seat, and Michelle glances down. 

The package is wrapped in ribbon, and she can see a bit of the fabric through the paper that it is wrapped in. The gown’s cloth is of silk she knows they cannot afford, and it is a bright, pale blue that seems to be forcibly suggesting a clear sky to her mind. She can see a bit of lace peeking out, as well, and she knows that if she opens it, there will be plenty of embroidery and pleating to sell the idea of opulence and wealth. 

Michelle uses the heel of her boot to lightly slide the package further under the seat, into shadow. When she looked up at the man, one of her eyebrows is arched almost in a challenge. “I prefer men’s clothing.” 

For a moment, there is silence as he looks into her eyes. She is daring him, and he knows it-- daring him to react, to scold her, to insist that she change, or even to simply imply in a condescending, well-meaning tone. 

None of this happens. Instead, a small grin stretches across his lips, and it is genuine and friendly in a way she has never seen from anyone else before. “Me, too.” The words hold a bit of humor in them, and though she does not laugh, a little bit of warmth trickles into Michelle’s eyes. 

Now, she is certain that it was a poor attempt to hide amusement that she heard from behind her while speaking to the guard.

Michelle maintains his gaze for a moment, and this time it is not charged with a challenge or any uncertainty. She simply scans his features, finding only the shadows of some forming smile lines and an expression of genuine pleasure situated upon them. The quiet is not unpleasant; it is comfortable, something she has never felt before in silence with another person. 

When the youth finally looks away, it is to stifle a yawn. Michelle barely hides the upward twitch in her lips this time, but luckily he is too busy settling into his seat to notice.“I am going to take a short rest if that is alright with you.” 

“Of course.” Michelle resumes her staring out the window, and he allows his eyes to flutter shut. She has already assumed he is sleeping when he speaks again. 

“I will inform the drivers before nightfall that our only pause will be to switch out the horses,” he murmurs, a pleasant note of tiredness in his voice. Michelle cannot help but be pleased by the news. “Wake me if you need anything.” 

Michelle lets out a noncommittal hum, eyes fixating on the grey horses ahead of them again. She has nearly allowed herself to become lost in thought again before his sleepy voice jars her from her musings. 

“Oh. And my name is Edmund Leeds. I am an advisor in King Peter’s court-- but you can call me Ned if it’s all the same to you.” 

An advisor… He must know the king, then, and well. And yet a close confidant of King Peter was willing to come all this way to see her safely to Terygen? The thought is one that is confusing, and Michelle decides that it will take a night of puzzling to begin to understand. Still… The name suits him, and this is all she manages to think about as she responds. 

“It is.” 

Ned hums from across the carriage, and Michelle does not know why she has to fight back a smile. “Alright. Well… Goodnight.” 

After that, his breathing deepens, and deep snores begin to fill the carriage. The rhythm is soothing, Michelle decides, as she gazes out the window and watches the countryside of her homeland fade into the distance so completely that she wonders if they were even there before.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //Hey, everyone! Just wanted to let you know (because it's only implied, not stated) that Brad Davis is the guard who tries to hand MJ into the carriage. Hope you liked seeing all the familiar faces this chapter!//


	6. VI.

After Edmund falls asleep, Michelle finally finds quiet as the carriage rattles on. The shifting countryside is the perfect backdrop to the turbulent thoughts which dance in her mind in a tumble of whispers that becomes deafening. Every hoofbeat from the horses sounds like thunder, or maybe it is Michelle’s own hammering heart. 

Each turn of the wheels brings her closer and closer to the fate that she has dreaded her whole life, the fate she tricked herself into believing would never find her. 

The day hurdles by, to Michelle’s chagrin, and before she knows it the carriage pulls to the side of the road in front of a distant manor. It is almost certainly the place that they were scheduled to visit, but before they can get too close Michelle’s travel partner takes action. Ned steps out to tell the others that they will not, in fact, be staying the night at the estate, and Michelle can hear the sounds of a new team of horses being brought to replace their current ones. 

Relief washes over the lone occupant of the carriage as it sets in: they are not stopping. If they stop, Michelle will be left in a room by herself, and sleep will not find her. She will find herself captured by her thoughts again, trapped until the dawn with the reminder that there is no escaping this. 

They need to stay moving. _ She _needs to stay moving. 

It is somewhere between the relief and the realization that Michelle drifts off to sleep. The gentle lurching of the carriage and the clopping of hooves keeps her in a deep state of rest, possibly coupled with the fact that she has not slept for a full day. 

She is not sure for how long she sleeps, but when Michelle wakes it is to the sun streaming through the window of the carriage. Her circlet is askew over her brow. Michelle can feel several curls falling loose from the knot her mother worked so hard to keep neat, and she knows for a fact that her hair is a mess of crumpled ringlets from where her temple rested against the window in sleep. 

Michelle immediately glances across the carriage to find an amused Edmund looking upon her, an eyebrow raised. Her eyes narrow, still slightly stiff from sleep, as she shoots him a look and begins to adjust the circlet. He raises his hands defensively and returns to staring out the window, quiet. 

Michelle appreciates the quiet as the journey continues. An hour after she wakes, a guard comes to the carriage with food. It is not Bradley, for which Michelle is grateful, and he brings two bundles of deep red cloth, which he hands to Ned. After this, he bows and walks away. 

Ned reaches to hand Michelle a bundle as the carriage starts up again, and she takes it in silence. Michelle has grown used to the feeling of an empty stomach, and so she does not allow the uncomfortable prickling in her abdomen to make her movements hasty or desperate. She is accustomed to the sensation by now. 

“I am sorry if it is not to your liking,” Ned comments as he opens his bundle, revealing a healthy helping of cheese, fresh fruit, and a small assortment of dried meat. “We would have had a fuller meal if we’d stopped.” 

“It is more than enough,” Michelle replies simply. She manages to keep herself composed as she eats, though the food is more plentiful and of better quality than she has had in a long time. Edmund does not watch her as they eat, and Michelle appreciates it. She knows he is no fool; he came to her home, after all, and has without a doubt heard the murmurs of the guards. 

She will not lower her head or be ashamed of her home; that was never in question. But it helps that she is not in the company of one who expects her to do so. 

They continue to ride for the rest of the day and a good deal of the night. Michelle falls asleep again, as does Ned, and they stop twice to rest and water the horses and relieve themselves. The countryside here is different from the land Michelle is used to. The grass is green, the fields are golden, and the small settlements that they pass are quiet and neat. The larger cities are farther away since they do not wish to ride through too many of them, but even from afar they are colorful and well fortified. It is a very different sight from empty, disease-ridden fields in Enya, and it overpowers Michelle with a sense of abundance. 

Her chest aches as she looks over rolling hills while she waits for Ned to return to the carriage from the forest. The clear, full moon makes the lush grass appear silver; the livestock here must eat well. Do her people not deserve such abundance and infrastructure? 

That is why she is doing this, Michelle reminds herself. It is a sacrifice. She can either be a pawn and a trophy, or she can fight for prosperity for her own people. Maybe, if she can just hold on, she can secure good things for her land. 

The sound of Ned's return pulls her from her thoughts. He steps into the carriage, and as soon as the door closes they continue on. Michelle is not tired. Somehow, she can feel that the time for thought and for quiet is nearing its end. 

“I am glad that sleep found you.” Michelle glances up at the sound of his voice as he settles back down in the seat, and her immediate urge to thank him surprises Michelle. 

Resisting the persistent nudging of the thought, Michelle instead fixes him with an even stare. “How much longer?” 

Edmund does not seem surprised by her response to his words. Instead, he immediately begins to answer her, glancing at his window and opening the blue velvet curtains he had closed. “We are on the last leg of the journey. There is an hour left at most.” 

Michelle nods, and it is not until she has already turned back to her own glass pane that he speaks again. “He’s a good man, you know. The king.” 

“A good man does not purchase a bride from the rubble of a fallen kingdom.” 

Even though she is not looking at him, Michelle can hear Ned tense from across the carriage. After spending so much time in his presence, she can practically see his wince in her mind. 

Ned seems to realize that no amount of persuasion will change her mind, so instead, he falls silent. Michelle can hear his mind whirring as she watches the moonlit countryside pass by. After a few moments, he finally decides upon what he can say to her. “I will be here. If you need me.” 

Now, it is Michelle’s turn to stiffen. She catches her breath, though she does so softly enough that he cannot hear her. When was the last time that someone offered her reassurance or companionship? Her mother never did so, not verbally… It would have undermined her father. The queen had chosen a path of quieter resistance than that. 

Perhaps that is why Ned’s words feel so foreign as they run through her mind… Or maybe it is simply that Michelle has never had any offers of friendship. 

She at least manages to keep her voice composed, though it is slightly quieter than it was before. “Do you not have other duties to return to?” she asks, raising an eyebrow as she stares at his reflection in the glass. 

Michelle is surprised by the tentative, slightly hopeful smile that she can see spreading across his reflection’s face. “My wife, Elizabeth,” he replies, nodding slightly. “But my duties are to be where the king is. I shall be there as long as you wish me to be.” 

For a moment, Michelle is quiet. Her fingers skim the cold glass as she contemplates his offer. He is from an enemy kingdom… But he is not _ the _enemy, not the one who is using her as a bartering chip. And if she is going to make her home in a kingdom of her enemies, it would be wise to seek out a friend. 

Especially one whose eyes are as earnest as his as they meet hers in the glass. 

Michelle turns to face him, keeping her face an unreadable mask as she does so. “I suppose I shall tolerate it… If only to keep you from the clutches of that other guard.” 

“Oh, Sir Davis?” Edmund questions, a grin crossing his face. Michelle finds a strange sort of satisfaction filling her as she realizes that he agrees with her on this particular front, though she fights to hide it. “He is quite a dangerous foe. I thank you.” 

“You are eternally in my debt, Sir Leeds,” Michelle agrees. She is not sure when the last time was that she jested with someone, but it feels good. Natural. She needs it now, and she wonders if he knows that. 

The man grins, settling back more comfortably in his seat. “I will forever search for a way to repay you, Your--” The sharp look she throws in his direction seems to serve as a reminder, and he catches himself with a quick nod. “Sorry.” 

“Michelle.”

She is not sure what prompts her to offer him her name, but she knows she has made the right decision when he nods simply in response. She can tell that he is pleased, but he makes no effort to push her further. When was the last time anyone in her life demonstrated such respect for her? 

Michelle turns back to the window rather than choosing to examine the thought. Their ride continues on in silence. Gray begins to tinge the edge of the horizon, indicating that dawn is nearing. Soon, the sky will be an explosion of color over the massive line of trees she can see in the distance. 

Ned is right; it does look somewhat like the wood surrounding her home. However, there are some subtle differences. The trees are taller than they are around her home, and fewer of them are gnarled oaks or fiery maples. Instead, the majority are evergreens and birches with parchment-like trunks. They stretch on for a long way, even over the slightly rolling and rocky hills that Michelle can see. Though she cannot yet see the ocean, there is a slight tang to the wind that implies it is nearby. 

As they reach the edge of the forest and begin to ride on the trail through it, Michelle sees a wall on either side of the path. It seems to surround the road and continue beyond it, closing in the trunks of many of the large trees as a way to keep out intruders. None of the guards she recognizes line it, but every so often there is a rustling beyond the wall that makes Michelle suspect rangers. 

Ned glances her way a few times, seeming to wait for her to ask something. She does not for a good deal of time, at least until the trees begin to thin a bit. Through them, she catches a glimpse of rocky cliffs that drop off into fiery waters--- the ocean, with the peaks of waves topped with an explosive, orange sunrise. The waves lunge and churn almost like things alive, and for a moment Michelle is so transfixed by them that she almost completely misses the building that sits atop the distant cliffs. 

It is large; larger than her home. The estate is of light stone, and it appears like a palace to Michelle as it looms high among the trees. The face of the building is neat and regal, with shining windows and pristine balconies of beautifully carved stone. A massive set of steps lead up to two open doors, and in the distance, Michelle can make out two figures, small as ants, perched on the steps.

Rather than focusing on them or her racing heart, she chooses to speak. “Is that the estate?” Her voice is tight and breathless, and adrenaline courses through her body as she tries not to think about who might be waiting for her there. 

Ned glances her way, initially with warm amusement shining in his eyes. However, after he catches a glimpse of her face, he sobers slightly. His face becomes more serious as he responds, “The very same.” 

Michelle clenches her fists in her lap as the carriage makes a turn. The estate grows bigger, and there is a temptation to make herself smaller in response. However, Michelle realizes what she is doing and draws her shrinking shoulders behind her. She squares them and lifts her chin, carefully unclenching her fists. 

_ “Gloriam maiorum: To the glory of our ancestors.” _

The thought rings through her head almost as a reflex, put in place by her father. The carriage begins to slow as it pulls into the yard of the estate, and Michelle abruptly lets the curtains fall closed. The vehicle slows to a halt, and she can hear the guards moving to open the door and reveal her to those who await her, the ones who she has not seen yet. 

No. 

She is not doing this for her ancestors. Michelle is not giving away her freedom for those who are already dead and gone. Her hand is not something she will offer away for the sake of molding corpses or for the mistakes of men who lived in just the same way as her father does now. 

She is doing it for the people who have suffered in silence beneath those ancestors for centuries, and she is doing it to bring them the relief they deserve. They are the ones whose cries and troubles enable her to let out a breath and release her clenched fingers. They are the ones who make her stare level and piercing and her expression dignified, and they are the ones who calm her as the door to the carriage opens. 

Ned casts her a wordless glance, one she returns for a fleeting look with a quiet nod. His sympathy is not something she wishes to explore at the moment. He swallows and returns the nod, respect in his eyes as he moves to leave the carriage first. 

Quiet voices speak for a moment, and Michelle cannot hear them clearly over the roaring in her ears. However, she recognizes the rise and fall of the tone to indicate a brief greeting, a question, a response, and a dismissal. 

Before she can change her mind, Michelle rises from her seat in the carriage and steps out, this time accepting the aid of a footman she does not recognize in order to avoid looking at the men who await her. She is helped to the smooth, cobbled path before the steps, where her boots are grateful to meet the firm ground. 

She is sure that her father would be scandalized to see her now. 

The beautiful, green riding gown is wrinkled in many places from the days in the carriage, and its skirts appear disheveled around her as they swish to a lumpy rest. Her curls have long since decided to abandon Michelle’s mother’s graceful knot. Though several of them remain loosely held together, many more have drifted free in wisps about her face and shoulders. The fiery orange light seems to set them ablaze as they drift at the edge of their vision, played with by the wind. 

Despite all of this, Michelle’s chin is high as she turns to face the two awaiting her. Her eyes are sharp and piercing as steel as they fall upon the men, unyielding. She knows that she does not look like whatever conquered princess they expected: someone demure and lovely and blushing for the king. She will not appear before them as a king’s daughter, but as a future queen. 

The warm brown eyes that meet her own hold nothing but awe. 

The confidence provided by the adrenaline is interrupted as Michelle’s gaze finds an earnest, reverent one staring back. Her heart resumes beating with all the force of a war drum. Michelle drags her eyes away from his, finally taking in the men before her for the first time. 

Both are garbed like nobility before her, though in different ways. One wears clothing of a deep crimson and gold, and the embroidery on his fine doublet and undershirt is almost a geometric pattern. He stands tall and proud, a man nearing maybe half a century of age. His hair and beard are deep blacks. He is clearly a man who has seen much-- a warrior, based on his stance. However, he has smile lines, and there is a gleam of mischief in his eyes. 

The other is much younger, and it is his gaze that almost seems wonderstruck. He appears no older than she is, though he is clothed just as finely as the man at his side, if not more so. His clothing is more solemn in its color. His shirt is of navy, and the rest of his garments are a deep, dark ochre, all the way down to the gleaming tips of his boots. The clothing has some tasteful embroidery in silver thread, and there is a red poppy in his lapel, but this is as much ornamentation as the man needs-- other than a crown of gold perched upon his brow. None of this draws Michelle’s attention for long, however. 

Other aspects of his appearance are more interesting; namely, his mess of thick, brown curls that seem to have abandoned his attempt to smooth them down. His face is young and open, and it is clean-shaven to reveal a sharp, bold jawline. But the most defining feature of this man is the way that his deep, dark eyes seem to make every attempt to melt her with their wonderful-filled warmth. 

Michelle tears her gaze away from his for the second time, turning instead to face the older of the two men. She bends her knee slightly in a curtsy, though it is brief and not nearly as low as decorum might mandate. 

Her eyes meet the older man’s as she scans his face. This is the king she is to marry, then… He is old enough to be her father. Michelle’s stomach churns, and for a moment she wonders if she is going to be sick. Anger follows close behind, but of a sort that she is less inclined to handle. This anger is not righteous or powerful… It feels desperate, reactionary. 

“Your Majesty.” Her greeting is quiet, and her voice sounds foreign in her own ears as she straightens from her curtsy. 

In response to her actions, the man begins to chuckle, his eyes disbelieving and amused. Michelle’s eyes widen, and now the anger feels more real. The volume of his laughter grows, and the young man at his side turns to him with a mix of concern and frustration in his gaze. 

“Stark-” begins the younger man, but the older-- Stark-- raises a hand to indicate that he understands as his laughter subsides. 

“Yes, yes,” Stark replies, waving a hand airily in the younger man’s direction. When he turns back to Michelle, however, the gleam of mirth in his eyes still lingers. “Apologies, Princess, but no matter how much you desire my body, I am spoken for.” 

_ “Stark.” _

The younger man is a strange mixture of furious and mortified, but Michelle is done playing games. She looks from one to the other, then back to Stark with eyes that are narrowed. It all makes more sense now. Did he intend for her to come here, be paraded before him, and then be sent back to her people, rejected? Perhaps he planned to use her as some sort of prisoner or to humiliate her before his people as a symbol of his victory. 

“You jest with me.” Her words are cold and dark, and her eyes dig into Stark like daggers. 

“No, no.” The younger man struggles to control the situation, but Michelle does not pause in her glaring to look his way. Stark’s continued humor in the face of her anger only inflames it even more. Michelle has given up much for the sake of her people; she will not allow him to mock her sacrifice. 

“I apologize, Your Highness, for any confusion,” the young, crowned man explains hurriedly. His apology and the sincerity in his tone finally cause Michelle to look his way, her eyes meeting his once more. His cheeks are slightly reddened, as are the points of his ears. She ignores the fluttering this provokes in her chest as the man continues. “This- this is Prince Anthony Stark, the prince consort to Her Majesty Virginia of Olyrian.”

Stark-- the prince-- nods to accept the identification. “It is always strange to hear anyone call her by her full name,” he remarks, referring to the queen. Michelle finds herself relaxing slightly, though she is still struggling to understand the situation she has found herself in. Prince consort? She has heard of queen consorts-- she is about to become one. But she has never considered the inverse.

Maybe it is her imagination, but Stark’s next quip almost seems designed to give her time to recover herself. “At your service, Your Highness… Well, in all ways but that one.” 

Michelle finds herself resisting the childish urge to pull a face. However, a strange sense of gratitude fills her, though she is still rather tense. He gives her someone to defend against, something to focus on rather than the matter at hand. 

“I apologize for him.” The younger man’s voice causes Michelle to look his way again, eyes narrowing. He meets her gaze evenly, almost like he was anticipating its intensity. Those warm eyes do not waver, as though he is trying to show that she has his undivided attention. 

“Do not,” she replies, her voice clear and unreadable. She does not want his apologies. 

For a moment, the two stand facing one another. The awe in his eyes still lingers, and Michelle intentionally focuses on anything but the brown, soulful irises. 

After a moment of quiet, he extends a hand to her in greeting. “Your Highness… I am King Peter of Terygen.” 

_ King. _

He is so young. She has grown to think of kings as older and wizened, as men who deal power with all the care they might give to a deck of cards. But this man does not resemble any sort of king she has met before. Young, caring, sincere… These are adjectives that have never described the heads that hold the Jones crown. 

Brown eyes flicker to her hand at her side, then back to her face. “It is an honor.” 

Michelle offers him a stiff nod, but no more. The king pauses for a moment, then carefully lowers his hand, pursing his lips uncomfortably and then quickly masking it. “I trust your journey was comfortable.” 

“You need not concern yourself with my comfort.” Though her tone holds no outright anger, it is tense and her response is immediate. 

King Peter’s eyes widen slightly, and he appears to search for words for a moment. “I-- Of course.” The words are breathless, and despite their meaning of understanding, Michelle can tell that she has caught him off-guard.

“I will allow you two to familiarize yourselves in private.” Stark’s voice draws her from her prolonged stare with the king, and Michelle watches as the prince nods to Peter in a farewell. If she is not mistaken, Stark’s momentary eye contact with the king is meant to reassure him. 

Has anyone ever attempted to help Michelle in such a way? 

_ Not the time for such thoughts. _

Stark turns, offers her a slight bow at the waist and the first truly sincere smile he has shown before her. Then he stands and turns, walking back through two doors that are so intricately carved that they almost remind Michelle of spiders’ webbing. 

Once the sound of Stark’s boots has faded, Michelle finds herself lowering her hackles. He was, after all, the one who initially mocked the situation that has radically altered the trajectory of her life… The king before her has been less offensive. Somehow, that is worse. It is awfully hard to see any traces of her father’s brutal ruling hand in the cautious brown eyes and carefully arranged expression that rather reminds her of a concerned hound pup. 

“Princess,” King Peter murmurs, folding his hands behind his back, “I apologize if I have done anything to offend you.” 

Michelle is quiet for a moment. Her face is a mask of stone, but the adrenaline is beginning to fade and returning her mind to the machine that she needs it to be. Strategy is what matters now; she will not simper and bat her eyes for him, but they at the very least need to be civil for the sake of her subjects.

She will not lie to him. Her father’s constant lies instilled long ago an urge in a young Michelle to speak the truth, even through difficulty. “Your apology is accepted on behalf of my kingdom.” And it is. 

“But what about on behalf of the Princess Michelle?” 

He is observant, and he listens to what she says. The king’s eyes are earnest as he takes a step forward, the refinement of his folded hands forgotten as they fall forward to dangle loosely at his side. He pushes her no further, but she cannot pretend she did not hear the question. His stare is too intense for that. 

His intense gaze is not sharp like her craggy, rocky stare; it is a steady, strong flow like the pounding of the waves on the shore. 

Michelle will not be swept away with the tide. “I have traveled through the night, Your Majesty.” The words are definite and calculated, meant to ensure he does not expect any response. 

Something in the man before her collapses, and a sympathetic pang shoots through her chest before she can stop it. She caused that… The stare once filled with hope is now more guarded, though it does retain a glimmer. 

He knows that he will not succeed, she can tell. However, he still braves one more question though he knows its answer. “Please, call me-- call me Peter.” 

She makes no move to speak. Such a title as ‘king’ is easy to inherit; one must only be born to the right family. The one he wishes her to use must be earned. 

The king knows this, Michelle is certain of it. His eyes shift away, falling upon the carriage. “I shall have you shown to your rooms. Karen, if you could assist the Princess, I would be quite grateful.” His next response addresses both her and another-- more specifically, a steward who is waiting a distance away, just inside the estate’s massive doors. He allows his voice to carry to reach this second audience. 

From just within the estate, a woman emerges with a reply of, “Of course, Your Majesty.” 

She turns to Michelle, and though the expression on her face is reserved, Michelle cannot help thinking that it is rather pleasant. The woman is tall and reedy, all angles and precision. Her long, dark hair is combed back into a tight bun, and she does not wear a gown. Instead, she is garbed in robes of deep red with a cape of blue, and the royal crest is found on her sternum where the cape dips down. 

“Right this way.” Karen turns and begins to walk, and Michelle follows. She cannot refrain from allowing her eyes to pass over the king one last time. 

His gaze follows her, but not in the way she has learned to associate with her father or the attentions of some of his younger advisors. Their stares always left her feeling exhausted, almost as though they were dissecting her with every rise and fall of their eyelids. 

Under his eyes, Michelle somehow feels as though he has seen more than just her wrinkled gown and disheveled ringlets, and that he respects that which he has found. 

“If you require anything at all, there is a bell in your rooms which can be used to call me,” Karen informs Michelle as they turn the corner of the main hallway, finally removing King Peter from Michelle’s sight. A thick, finely woven rug muffles their footsteps as Karen and Michelle continue down the hallway, a sensation that is foreign to Michelle. At her home, the cold floor always rose to meet her feet and nip at them with chill through her worn shoes. “I am more than happy to help you with anything.” 

“I thank you,” Michelle replies quietly, bringing her eyes along the walls of the hallway they are walking down. They are clean and neat, with many windows allowing in natural light. Several tapestries are hung along them, depicting seaside scenes and enchanted forests and ancient battles. She finds herself thinking after the scraps of tapestries that she has collected and left in her trunk. Part of her is captured by a strange urge to hold the scraps up to these tapestries and see if she can guess what they were meant to depict. 

Michelle takes the thought captive and thrusts it from her mind. She will not indulge in curiosities about this place; it is not for her. It is a place of strategy and nothing more: the place, as of now, where she can effect the most change for her people. 

“What is your role here?” Michelle queries, eyes returning to Karen as they begin a climb up a sunny stairwell. Sun pours in through high windows that overlook the ocean, and Michelle has to tear her eyes away to avoid being captivated by the sight. 

“Of course, Your Highness,” Karen agrees as they emerge from the stairwell into a long hall on the second floor. This one is still decorated, but in a more domestic manner. Vases are placed on shelves and in alcoves on the walls, and portraits hang every so often along them. Michelle avoids looking upon a well-done rendition of King Peter, but her eyes find the portrait of another woman. Her long, dark hair falls in straight waves and braids down her back, and through a pair of golden spectacles, her dark eyes twinkle with kindness. The king’s mother, perhaps? 

“I am a member of King Peter’s personal staff,” Karen informs Michelle as they take another turn to a corridor lined with windows that face the forest along the coast. “I manage nearly all practical matters for the King, and I keep a record of all of his correspondence and appointments. I am his most trusted confidant.” 

The words might have sounded like they belonged to one with an enlarged sense of their importance in any other context, but somehow Michelle believes Karen. It has everything to do with the simple, factual tone that the steward uses, but somehow it does not make sense. If Karen is as vital to the court as she says... “Why, then, are you in my company now?” 

Karen answers without taking even a moment to think on the matter. “The king asked me to make myself equally available to you.” 

_ Equally. _Michelle cannot think of a single time that her father tolerated any equality with her mother. Her mother’s words run through her head again from their final conversation.

_ “He will be like the King.” “I pray, for your sake, that he is not.” _

Before she can further examine the thought, Karen stops before a pair of doors that are of white, painted wood. They are carved with climbing berry vines that loop and twist over the frame and paint, coming to a wreath around the handles. Karen opens these with certainty and steps into the rooms, and Michelle finds herself feeling more out-of-place than she ever has before. 

The chambers are cheery, with large, open windows allowing cool, fresh air to rustle the pale blue drapings. Finely crafted furniture of simple upholstery seems to beckon to her, asking that she might rest her tired head upon them. A massive, four-poster bed occupies the center of the room, and its coverlet is of the same blue that the furniture and drapings display. There are more accommodations: a washstand and basin, a screen behind which to change, a dressing table. Michelle sees a door that likely joins to another room, but she cannot even begin to wonder what is behind it now. 

This room is larger than hers, her father’s study, and her secret library would be all together. 

“These are your quarters during your stay here,” Karen informs Michelle, turning to face her with a pleasant nod. “I will send assistance to help you undress and to run a bath in a moment. Do you require anything else?” 

Michelle opens her mouth to answer, about to request that no one come at all. It is then, however, that her eyes fall to a dark bundle on the bed, and her head tips slightly to the side in curiosity. 

Her skirts brush against her legs as Michelle steps closer, her eyes fastening upon the muted cloth colors. A tawny brown, a cream-colored off-white, deep grey… It is a bundle of clothing. As her eyes travel the long tunics, the loose breeches and trousers, and the pair of sturdy boots that rest atop them, every doubt is removed from her mind. 

It is men’s clothing. 

“No,” Michelle breathes, her mind drifting back to the carriage. As her fingers brush the warm, well-made cloth, her mind does the work for her: the comparison of proportions, specifically those of these clothes with those of Ned Leeds. 

She does not smile, but the corner of her mouth tips up as she draws her finger along the top of one of the boots. They will almost certainly be far too large on her, no matter how tightly she pulls the laces. 

She will wear them everywhere. 

“No, thank you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //Sorry for the wait! With college searching, scholarship competitions, and school happening, I've been wrestling with time and motivation to write. But I'm on break, and I'm back! I'm going to try to be here as much as I can, and I hope you like the meeting that I made you wait five chapters for. XD


	7. VII.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> //I am SO sorry this took so long. Like, seriously. I know I always say that or whatever, but I genuinely am. 
> 
> Honestly... It's been hard lately. It's been hard for a lot of people. I'm lucky to be safe and to be healthy, but I've just felt heavy, you know? It's hard, in a world where nothing is promised, to make the decision to give birth to new ideas in spite of that, even if they're just fanfiction. 
> 
> But I have time, and I know that a lot of other people are as stressed and exhausted as me. I know that we're all working hard to stay calm and speak truth to chaos, so I'm going to honor that. I'm not gonna promise a perfect schedule, because there are going to be hard days. But I am here to talk to anyone, and I'm going to be providing you more updates so that if you need a distraction or an escape and are willing to find it in my work, it's there. 
> 
> Thank you all so much for your patience and kindness. Stay happy and healthy, and know that I'm here if any of you need to talk or get your mind off things. My Tumblr askbox is always open. <3

It has only been a quarter-hour since Michelle arrived here, and she is already contemplating murder. 

She is not sure whose murder it will be specifically, but someone or something will certainly be on the receiving end of her wrath if the stays on her gown continue to taunt her. Michelle understands her mother's warning now. If she is going to continue wearing gowns like this one, undressing will be almost impossible. No matter how much she tugs at them, prises at them with her fingers, or wriggles in the bodice of the gown, they seem determined to strangle her still.

Her boots lay discarded under one of the elaborate chairs, one sprawled on the floor while the other strands straight and ready to be worn again. The riding jacket adorns the same chair like a cape, while her circlet is one strong breeze away from tumbling off the washstand. On the whole, it has taken exactly fifteen minutes for Michelle to prove that she is not suited to a room as nice as this one.

Michelle is one more failed attempt from spitting out a haphazard string of curses when there is a knock at the door. Michelle's eyes snap to the door of the bedroom, narrowing. It does not make sense... The noise seems too faint to have come from there. 

It is only after a second knock that Michelle realizes it must be coming from the adjacent room, whose door is still open. After a moment of quickly trying to erase the frustration from her brow, Michelle darts to the next room in a whirl of swishing skirts and bare feet slapping the floor. When she finally opens the door, the woman on the other side only makes her feel more disheveled. 

The girl who awaits her has a sweet, fresh face and bright eyes that light up as soon as she catches a glimpse of Michelle. Her eyes do not go to the crumpled, partially undone gown or to Michelle's mess of hair. Instead, the pretty blonde offers her a smile and a quick, neat curtsy, gently tucking the small pile of clean towels she is holding to her chest. 

It is odd, though... She does not look like a maid. She wears no uniform, but rather a simple but lovely gown of pale blue. The color is not dissimilar to the dress that Michelle's father had wanted her to wear. It suits her much better, pairing nicely with her sweet blue eyes and the tidy flaxen bun into which her hair is tucked.

“Your Highness," she greets, nodding. Her voice is even and composed, but it holds a bright sort of confidence that is unique to her disposition. “I am here to help you get fresh and settled in." 

For the first time, the blonde's eyes flicker to Michelle's clothing. She scans her over in one look, but it is not a judgemental one. There is a sharp efficiency to the gaze, as if she were taking inventory of all the little details she can about Michelle. She has a quick mind and a bright spirit. 

Those were two traits that Michelle had never considered capable of coexisting; at least, not outside of her books.

"Shall we get you out of those clothes?" the woman proposes, not waiting for Michelle's response. "You must be exhausted, I simply can’t imagine riding in a carriage for two days straight without stopping.” 

Word travels fast here, then. “I-- erm, yes, thank you.” 

Michelle blinks, stepping away from the door. Her helper does not wait to be asked again, stepping into the chamber that Michelle had not had a chance to examine. 

It is like the bedroom, dressed in fabrics of a blue that is a bit paler in here. There are a few sofas, a table, and a writing desk. Several bookshelves line the walls, but Michelle does not have time to pay attention to the little thrill of interest that rises in her in response to them. The blonde girl is already moving for the door to the bedchamber, leaving Michelle little choice but to follow.   
  
When she enters the door to the room, she finds that the woman has already begun to fill up the shiny copper basin. She has turned a faucet that Michelle had not noticed before, and now the humming of the pipes underneath the rushing of water into the tub reminds Michelle of a cheerful song. As the tub fills, the woman stands by the washstand, where she has set the towels after carefully moving Michelle's circlet to the dresser. She is taking a moment to arrange them in comfortable silence, and Michelle pauses for a moment as she contemplates whether to speak. 

It is only once the blonde's back is turned that she finally decides to speak up. The woman is bent over, opening a small, carved cabinet that Michelle had not noticed before. 

She clears her throat, tucking a curl behind her ear. “I am sorry, but are you...“ 

“Oh, a maid?” The woman finishes her sentence in a relaxed anticipation that surprises Michelle. When she turns, she holds a few pretty bottles containing various liquids that Michelle does not recognize. As she speaks, she begins to set them in an attractive arrangement on the washstand. Her expressive features and tone make sure that Michelle knows that she is engaged in her answer. “Not officially, no. But I still remember how to do everything, don’t worry.” 

Michelle realizes that the woman thinks her question was to her qualifications, and her eyes widen. “Oh, I was not worried about… Well.” She pauses for a moment, weighing which is more important to her: correcting the woman's assumption or clarifying the response. 

She decides on the latter. “Sorry, what do you mean you remember everything?” 

Those clear blue eyes find them, and a lively understanding flashes through them. “Oh! Sorry, I’m terribly forgetful sometimes." The woman pauses mid-thought, swiftly to the tub to shut off the water with a practiced movement. It is after she has finished and turned to fetch one of the bottles that she speaks. 

"I used to be a lady's maid-- for the queen, actually, ever since I was a little girl." The bottle's glass stopper is off in a flash, and then a few droplets of the contents spill onto the water's surface. The effect is immediate: the warm steam wafting from the bath smells of pine, which Michelle cannot help breathing in. 

The woods... Sticky sap on her hands, leaves and needles tangled in her hair, and the taste of a storm on the wind as cool droplets christen her neck. The familiar images of home flash across her mind as she shoves them into the little chest of undesirable reminders in her mind. Better to focus on something else; currently, that something is understanding the woman who is so focused on arranging the screen in front of the window beside the tub.

"Queen?" Michelle asks, the word leaving a bitter tang on her tongue. That is a title that will be hers soon. In her experience, it is an empty one.

"Queen May, yes." Michelle recognizes the name she had found in her father's library. May, the wife of the deceased King Benjamin... The last queen. Michelle will be expected to live up to whatever standards she established. 

The blonde woman finishes moving the screen with a satisfied sigh, brushing some nonexistent dust off the blue gown as punctuation to the action. "She was wonderfully kind to me... I truly did love growing up around her." Before Michelle can ask more, the blonde woman gestures invitingly for her to come closer. After a reflexive pause, Michelle steps toward her, and almost immediately her fingers begin to undo the stays. She was not wrong; she knows what she is doing. Her movements are deft, and in thirty seconds she has completed the task that Michelle had been attempting for fifteen minutes. 

Her fingers remove the outer layer of the gown and begin to work on the corset, loosening it. From behind Michelle, the girl continues to speak. Michelle decides that this woman enjoys conversation. More than that, she is comfortable speaking about herself, which is more than Michelle can say. 

"After my mother passed, I had nowhere to go. My father had died as a soldier before I was born, you see, and my mother was a cook in the palace kitchens." Though the story is a sad one, the woman does not tell it to seek out sympathy. Her tone is matter-of-fact and conversational as she finishes loosening the corset, causing Michelle to let out a breath of relief. 

"Rather than turning me out into the streets, however, Her Majesty offered me a position as one of her attendants." The petticoat is next, and it takes a bit longer. Michelle is content to listen to the woman's story as she works, grateful that there is no need for her to speak. "I was young. It was my job to tend to her, but she practically raised me. When Eddie and I were married, she saw to it that our wedding was the happiest day of my life, and she was as proud as the mother of the bride the whole day." 

"Oh!" The exclamation leaves Michelle's lips as the petticoat falls to the ground. The woman pauses in her reaching for it to cast Michelle a quizzical glance before she says, "You're Elizabeth." 

For the first time, the girl's face lights up. Her eyes are even brighter when they are filled with joyful surprise, and Michelle cannot help the way her shoulders relax at the change. "Why, yes! But please, call me Betty. Almost everyone does." 

Michelle takes the opportunity to step out of the petticoat, and before Betty can trouble herself with it, she reaches for the fallen cloth. As soon as she straightens, she realizes that her actions might have run the risk of offending Betty. 

When she looks into the woman's eyes, she realizes she need not have worried. The blonde is not upset... In fact, if Michelle is not mistaken, a gleam of something like approval appears in her eyes. It is gone as soon as Michelle notices it, replaced by crinkling at the edges of her eyes as she smiles. 

"Did Eddie talk to you about me?" In a few quick movements and some rustling of fabric, Michelle finds herself completely disrobed. Goosebumps rise on her skin as she resists the urge to cringe or attempt to cover herself. 

However, Betty is not looking anywhere but Michelle's eyes-- in fact, Michelle is certain that the thought to do so did not occur to the woman. She seems to interested in Michelle's answer to focus on anything else, though she does manage to gesture to the bath absently. 

Michelle inhales, letting out a careful breath. A bit of tension escapes her with the exhale as she moves to the tub. "He did, yes. He... Rode in the carriage with me." 

"That he did, didn't he." Fondness, sweet and flowing like honey, enters Betty's voice. It would be sickly if it were not so genuine. Betty is difficult for Michelle to keep up with; she is quick and investigative one moment, softness and youth the next. 

"Peter-- or King Peter, sorry!"

Michelle has just begun to climb into the bath when Betty continues and the name that leaves her lips nearly causes Michelle to slip. There is a splashing of water and the screech of Michelle's foot slipping down the side of the tub as she narrowly avoids falling. 

Luckily, Michelle manages to catch herself by propping her hands on the side of the tub so that her body hovers a distance away from the water. Embarrassment heats her cheeks at the clumsy mistake... Is she really so easily taken over by her emotions? 

Michelle glances quickly at Betty, certain that the sharp girl has caught the mishap and judged her for it. However, when Michelle's eyes meet Betty's wide ones, the concern in their blue depths is quickly revealed to have another origin. 

"Oh, don't be offended," Betty presses, and it takes Michelle a moment to realize why she is worried. She thinks that Michelle will be upset that she has addressed royalty without their title, as if somehow an informal address to someone she barely knows is a great slight. 

The thought nearly causes her to laugh, but luckily Betty's justification draws her back to the present. "It's just, we were raised together... And he doesn't much care for the title." 

Michelle's mind whirs at the words as she lowers herself into the water. Raised together... But Betty had said herself the was the daughter of one of the palace staff, and the king was the ward of the monarchs as well as royalty in his own right. Yes, Michelle had grown up alongside many servants, but only out of necessity. If her father had been in possession of the necessary wealth, they would have had a staff of servants who were not permitted to interact with the royals outside of their station. 

"You did not offend me at all." The words are quiet but genuine. Michelle comes dangerously close to offering Betty a smile, but she quickly remembers to keep guarded and careful. 

She immediately regrets the thought when Betty shoots her a relieved smile of her own. Before Michelle can dwell on the action that has caused her to feel increased respect for this girl, Betty has continued talking.

"Thank heavens. You know, I was worried you would be one of those sort." Her words are conspiratorial now, playful even as she reaches for one of the bottles from the table. 

When she uncorks it, Michelle smells soap, clean and not strongly scented like the stuff her father always insisted on having. Nevermind that they did not have piping and the water they used to bathe was cold; nevermind that the servants froze at night and the people starved. 

"Those sort?" 

"The snotty ones, with their noses up in the air." Betty hands over the bottle, and Michelle is relieved. The thought of being assisted in cleaning herself causes her face to smart. She much prefers to listen to Betty continue on as she dips her hair in the warm water, soaping her hands and then running them through the curls as the blonde continues. "All wrapped up in silks and titles and all that. Some of the royals who come to visit are." 

"I would think you saw a lot of that, working for royals." Michelle tries to tell herself that she is simply continuing the conversation to keep Betty going, and nothing else. But it is not true, and she feels a sinking feeling as she realizes it. She genuinely cares about this woman who is unlike any other she has met. 

She understands why Betty and Ned are married; there is something about both of them that makes them impossible to dislike or distrust. 

"Well, I certainly have seen some." Betty's response is amused as she reaches to fetch Michelle a washrag. Michelle accepts it, using it to dry her face before pausing. After she has done so, she offers Betty a grateful nod, and the girl grins easily in return. 

"Though it's surprising, really. The royal family has never been like that-- Heaven knows that King Benjamin never was, bless his soul." Michelle stiffens. 

The conversation is moving in the direction of the man that Michelle would like to avoid. Michelle's desires are torn; she does not want to speak of the king, but she is interested in the history of the former monarchs. Luckily, Betty decides the direction of the conversation for her.

"In fact, he seemed rather determined to prove the opposite. If he hadn't been so ridiculously in love with Queen May, I'd have thought he married her just as an act of rebellion." 

The past two days and the lack of sleep have dulled Michelle's defensive barriers, and she can feel her confusion flicker visibly across her face. Betty does not seem the least bit bothered by it. In fact, she seems delighted to have a reason to continue speaking. 

Michelle decides she likes this about Betty. Conversation is easy with her; her quick mind allows her to anticipate the direction that the flow of thought will travel, eliminating some of the need for Michelle to respond. There are no mind games. 

"Oh, you don't know?" Betty asks. It is not a disparaging comment. Michelle suspects that Betty would be disappointed if she did know whatever bit of trivia the blonde is about to tell her. "May is the daughter of a blacksmith from a village a bit outside the capital city."

Michelle manages to hide her surprise this time, but only just. For a moment, she runs the information through her sleep-addled brain to make sure she has not misheard.

"But... She's the queen." Her tone is not disapproving, but it is careful. Her father would rather Michelle died a spinster than marry below her station, despite the fact that Michelle's family lived with the same poverty that the peasants did. The kingdoms she has read of, the novels he had given her... All of them disapproved of marriages between royals and commoners. Wars had started over such things in the ancient days. 

"Yes," Betty says, to Michelle's relief. For some reason, she had worried that Betty might think her disapproving for being confused. It should not matter what Betty thinks, but... The way the woman had said 'those sort' echoed in her mind. 

She never wants to be 'those sort.' Michelle does not want to be anything like her father. 

Betty breezes past it all, not noticing Michelle's pause. "But Benjamin never cared much for that sort of thing. He was a terribly rebellious youth, from what May has told me. Spent lots of time sneaking out of the palace in plainclothes, you know, riding like a madman through the surrounding villages." 

There is amusement in Betty's voice, and as Michelle tips her hair back into the water to rinse out the soap, a slight smirk tugs at the corner of her lips. Something about the blonde's expressive emotions is contagious, and when she sees Michelle's smile, it only encourages her to continue. 

"He wasn't enamored at all with the thought of the crown... But when he saw May, he was a goner." Michelle runs her fingers through her wet curls, but her eyes do not leave Betty even as she begins to soak the cloth with soap. "Married her less than a year after marrying her, and he spent the first month of it wooing her in secret! A right shock she had when he told her who he was." 

Michelle can hardly imagine... Or maybe she can, what with her current predicament. Rather than dwell on that, she continues on. "And so she became queen after that?"

"Well, his parents weren't fond of the idea." Disapproval enters Betty's tone as she speaks of the monarchs from two generations ago. "They threatened to pass the crown to his younger brother, Richard, and his wife Mary. Benjamin didn't care, though. He told them that he would be just fine off and living with May as a peasant. Meant it, too... But, well." 

Michelle is planning on asking Betty to elaborate, but she continues anyway. "They weren't given much of a choice, not really." 

Betty is quiet for a moment, and the only sound is the lapping of the water against the tub's edges. "I do not understand." 

Betty inhales for a moment, breathing in the smell of pine. "Richard was a youth, newly married, when he learned of his disease." 

Richard... This is a name Michelle has never heard. It is not in any of the books she has read, has never come up in her father's discussion of Terygen. A second brother lost in the shadows. 

Such an existence sounds rather appealing to Michelle. 

"He was always a rather sickly child, though a sweet, earnest thing." Michelle begins to rub the soapy cloth along her skin, but she is careful not to let the water make too much noise. She wants to make sure to catch every word from this woman. It would be wise to have it available, to know the history of those who came before her. 

It would be wise to know what has forged the man whose life has somehow become tangled with her own like gorse in a thicket. 

"But as he grew older, it got worse. They knew he wouldn't live to grow into the crown for long, so they gave in and it stayed with Benjamin after they died." Though she will never admit it, Michelle finds herself feeling a quiet pride on Benjamin's behalf. A successful rebellion... Such a thing is almost impossible when your name is tied to a crown. 

"They never did learn exactly what Richard had... Always coughing, always pale as death. And shortly after Mary revealed she was with child, he began to fade away. Never even lived to see his son born." 

The blonde's careful words begin to make sense. Still, Michelle will not say the name; she will not risk letting it leave her lips if it is not an absolute necessity. 

"And his son was..." 

"King Peter, yes." This time, Michelle is ready for it. Still, her fingers clench slightly tighter around the washcloth in response to the surge of emotions that enter her chest. Confusion frustration, and more than anything a helplessness that makes her sick. 

For an instant, Michelle thinks that those clear blue irises flicker to her whitened knuckles. However, Betty moves to replace Michelle's cloth with another, leaving Michelle to wonder if she is imagining things. 

"King Benjamin and Queen May took him in, and they raised him as their own. It was unfortunate, but certainly not the worst outcome." 

"Because they could not have children?" 

Michelle's quick reply causes Betty to glance her way. "Why, exactly." There is pleasure in her voice. A similar feeling shoots through Michelle. She understands now. The chatty blonde does not speak on to hear the sound of her voice. She likes the process of guiding one mind until its movements are in step with her own, understanding. 

With her love of sciences and writing, Michelle can appreciate that. 

"You've certainly done your research," Betty comments idly, reaching to the bottom of the tub after rolling up her sleeve. Michelle hears the rush of moving water, and the level of the steamy water began to lower.

"Just a bit." Michelle does not want to be thought ignorant of their kingdom, but the stubborn side of her also does not want to be accused of caring for the king or his mahogany eyes. 

She prefers to focus on the intelligent blonde who is able to distract her from all of this. "Thank you, for seeing to me even though it was not required of you." 

"Oh, certainly!" Betty brightens at the thanks as she reaches for a soft blue towel. "Eddie mentioned that you had just arrived, and he told me that the two of you were stuck in that carriage for two days." 

Betty's inflection makes the time spent sound like eons, and amusement warms Michelle at the hyperbole. "I never quite understood how he grew to be so comfortable with travel. He can sleep anywhere, you know."

Fondness again-- Michelle can hear it though Betty's back is turned, permitting her to exit the tub and wrap herself in the towel. As Michelle lightly presses the moisture from her long, soaked hair, Betty continues. "I envy him that. I never seem to be able to fall asleep when I need to." 

Despite herself, Michelle finds herself offering Betty a piece of herself as she wraps in the towel. "My father used to have me drink sleeping tonics so I would not stay up all night." 

She pauses, hesitating. Michelle does not know what it is, but something urges her to keep speaking. "I poured them all out my window. But he gave me enough of them that I could probably figure out how to make some for you." 

When Betty turns, a laugh bubbles from her lips. It is a sweet sound, girlish, just like she is for all of her cleverness. "Oh, heavens know I could use it."

The woman begins to collect the various bottles to put them into the neat little cabinet, gesturing to a small pile of clean, white linen on the dresser that Michelle had not noticed before. Michelle is touched when she realized that the woman brought her fresh undergarments. 

Though the ones she wore were her last bit of home, Michelle does not want to insult the woman's thoughtful preparedness. As she listens to Betty's words, she begins to tug on the soft material. "Though it's a bit of a blessing in disguise, really. I write best at night." 

Michelle's head turns her direction as she finishes with the garments, interest filling her at the comment. 

"You are a writer?" 

Betty straightens and begins to collect the soaked cloths from the tub. "Yes, and a poet when I'm feeling dreamy." The comment causes Michelle to allow a small smile on her lips. She has always enjoyed the free structure of poetry. 

Betty returns the smile from across the room, and Michelle feels a sympathetic thrill in her stomach as she spots passion lighting Betty's eyes. That is an expression she has never seen outside of her own reflection in her smudged beakers after an experiment. 

Maybe she does not wish to be here... Maybe her heart longs for woods and thickets and crumbling hallways that will forever evade her. But at the very least, Betty has shown her that passion might not be lost to her here.

"I really fancy the histories," Betty confesses, her voice lilting and lively. "Collecting interpretations of the political movements of the palace, you know. All the important decisions that are too easily swept under the rug." 

Oh, Michelle knows a thing or two about closed doors. A bitter laugh nearly leaves Michelle in response, but she contains it. The bitter sound would be ugly juxtaposed with Betty's fervor.

"Since I married Eddie, I've been bored out of my bloody mind without any work to do. Bless him, but my husband is compensated a bit too much to justify me staying on as May's attendant when there are others who could use the work." 

Michelle nods in agreement as she turns to the shirt and breeches on her bed, despite the fact that they will almost certainly be too large. Betty does not seem surprised by the movement; Michelle is almost certain that Ned prepared her for it.  
  
"I've never been the sort who is content keeping the few same rooms clean; Ned prefers to do the tidying, it calms him down when he is overwhelmed. Something he can control." Michelle does not stop to examine the slight envy that enters her from hearing Betty speak so easily on the thoughts of her husband. She knows for a fact that her father has never cared for her mother's peace of mind... But that is no fault of Betty's.

"So I write, at the king's encouragement. Soon, I'll be finished editing my first volume, and he assures me it will have its place in the royal library and in print."

So her future husband patronizes writing, and the writing of women. Her father would be scandalized.

Michelle pointedly avoids looking at Betty as she buttons the front of Ned's shirt. It is as she predicted-- both the tunic and breeches are far too large for her. But they are clean, and the cloth is far more comfortable than a stiff dress. She would much rather knot the waist of the trousers and tuck the shirt into them than don another corset. 

She does not want to speak of the king... But Betty the type of woman that has never populated Michelle's life before. Self-assured, confident, and in control of her choices despite what life has thrown her way. Indulgent in what she loves rather than sacrificing it for the comfort of others. 

It would be foolish not to cultivate an acquaintance (her mind whispered the word friendship) with such a woman. So when the response flashed across her mind, Michelle did not let it die on her tongue. "I would love to read it, sometime." 

It was the right choice. For the first time, the eyes that are bright and quick soften slightly. As Betty steps closer to fix the collar on the overlarge shirt Michelle wears, it is an act of affection rather than one meant to help. 

"Well, it's nowhere near ready to read..." Betty hums, stepping back to examine the fit and see if she can help. "But perhaps I can make an exception, as a wedding present." 

For the first time, the familiar tone Betty uses causes Michelle to stiffen. The blonde does not seem to have noticed, and when she comes closer to fix the button that Michelle had missed in her haste, Michelle stiffens. 

"You know, perhaps I shall write a bit about your story," she remarks thoughtfully, fixing the following buttons. 

"After all, it will certainly be of interest to our people." Each syllable steals a little more breath from Michelle's lungs. She feels as though she is made of stone under Betty's fingers, and cracks of pent up exhaustion mingle with Michelle's feelings of being overwhelmed. The feeling of drowning returns.

"You're set to become a piece of living history here in Terygen, and-" 

"No." 

"Oh." Betty's surprised murmur hands in the air between them, and her hands are frozen on the last button. For a moment, Michelle sees hurt flash across the irises that is terribly, terribly transparent. 

Michelle has never understood why drowning people would injure their rescuers-- not until now. In her flailing to regain her control, Michelle had not been capable of focusing on anything but herself. 

Betty steps back, and her face is drawn into a reserved expression that somehow cuts into Michelle. Immediately, she misses the familiarity, the mischievous gleam in the blue eyes as Betty said something slightly controversial. It is not any emotion present that is distressing, it is the lack of anything in those clear eyes. 

"I... That's alright. I have quite enough material to edit already." Betty's lively tone has been replaced by one that is measured and methodical. 

Michelle hates it, hates that she caused it. For a moment, there is silence as Betty turns to gather up the towels and washcloths in her arms. This time, it is Michelle who offers the first words.

"Betty... I am sorry." 

"It's alright." The response is immediate. Betty's back is turned to Michelle as she repositions the load she is holding, but Michelle knows that it is not enough. She can see the tension the blonde woman is holding in her shoulders. 

"No, it is not." Michelle exhales, running a hand through her wet curls. "I suppose..." The sentence trails off as Michelle struggles to follow it, struggling to collect her thoughts. 

Betty is quiet, but when she turns, that persistent curiosity returns. It is tentative, but it is there. "You suppose?" The words prompt her to continue, and they give Michelle a flicker of hope. 

She can mend the damage she has caused, but in order to do so, she will have to be vulnerable. Michelle has never had to open herself; everyone in her life up until now has known all they needed to about her. Odd, unpredictable, offbeat. But now, faced with a woman she cares about even though she has just met, Michelle has to truly explain herself for the first time.

Betty likes to make the effort to make others understand, so Michelle will return the favor to make it right.

"It is strange, to think of myself a part of your nation's history." The words might be offensive if they were spoken absently, but each syllable is thoughtful from Michelle's lips. "My kingdom's history books have never painted a story worth telling." 

There is a moment of quiet uncertainty, and Michelle's heart begins to pound. Just when she thinks Betty is going to turn and go back to gathering her things, the corner of her lips quirks up. "I understand." 

Michelle nearly breathes an audible sigh of relief. "A lot of the time, the stories we tell are the sort that should never have been written in the first place. I understand that better than anyone."

Of course she does. The act of recording history is a powerful one... Narrative is everything. One word can change the definition of an entire battle because it is not the battles themselves that really matter; it is the consequences. By choosing to devote herself to recording these histories, Betty is not just immortalizing battles, policies, or movements. She is eternalizing why they matter, or if they do at all. 

Michelle decides that if someone must do the job, Betty is the right person to wield that power. 

Betty takes a breath and lets it out, straightening. She is less tense, but something still holds her back. Finally, she begins to speak, peering at Michelle through sharp blue eyes. Whatever she is about to say, it is a test. 

"But if you're ever looking to put down one worth reading, I would love to capture it with my pen. Heaven knows history could use a few more queens writing it." 

Warmth sparks through Michelle like the first, flickering breaths of a wildfire. The spontaneous smile that grows across her lips is as genuine as it is foreign to her. 

"I would like that." There is something almost playful in Michelle's voice, though she is completely truthful.

Michelle's fire is spreading, and the smile that Betty offers in return only makes it grow. "Me, too."

For a moment, Michelle worries that she is going to have to say something more, give away more of herself than she already has. Though she likes Betty, she is not sure she has it in her with the exhaustion weighing on her. 

Luckily, Betty has moved on-- something she is able to do easily, it seems. This particular trait is refreshing, and Michelle straightens slightly as Betty sets down the towels, removing any thought of her leaving just yet. 

"Now, won't you let me comb back your hair? You've got the loveliest curls." 

Though Michelle is tired, she does not think twice about complying. Betty moves her to sit at the vanity, and her hands are gentle and experimental in Michelle's wet hair as she continues to speak about her writing. Perhaps her hands are not as experienced with Michelle's type of hair as her mother's but they are just as gentle. Betty is a fast learner. 

Shortly after Betty has begun to comb through Michelle's wet hair, a few of the footmen enter the room with the trunks that Michelle brought with her. This causes Michelle to relax further. She may be in unfamiliar rooms, but at least she has her collection of mysteries to surround herself with like armor. 

For a half an hour, Michelle and Betty sit at the dresser, with Michelle commenting every so often on what Betty is doing with her hair. At the first mention Michelle makes of some of the styles her mother favors, Betty is further transfixed by the idea of doing Michelle's curls. By the time she finally stands to leave, she brings with her a promise that she can do Michelle's hair whenever she wishes. Michelle is grateful for the promise of further interaction with Betty, and Betty is pleased by the idea of more chances to innovate with the traditional styles of Terygen.

When the blonde leaves, Michelle is left in a room that is too quiet. Michelle has always enjoyed solitude; she had longed for it from the moment he found herself surrounded by enemy soldiers. But now that she has what she wants, there are too many opportunities to think about what awaits her. 

Michelle is not ready to sleep just yet; she knows she will only dream of what is to come. So, instead, she turns to the trunks. When the first is opened and she is greeted with the musty smell of old paper, she can feel some of the tension drain away. 

A pile of books and old experimental volumes grows at her side as she chooses which she would like to have on her nightstand, watching her sleep like old friends. She is not sure how long she has worked when she hears a slight tap on the door. 

She knows who it is by the sinking in her chest and the increase in her pulse. Michelle turns her head from where she is kneeling on the ground, and sure enough, the careful brown eyes that have been lingering in the back of her mind lock with her own. 

He still wears the same clothing as before, though the passage of time since their first meeting is evident on them. The bottom button of his doublet has come undone, reminding Michelle of the way that Betty had fixed her own button. She ignores the thought, not wanting to draw any comparisons between them. 

They are not alike, and she will not even tolerate the thought. 

Still, it is hard to ignore the signs of youth that are so reminiscent of the fact that they are not separated by many years. Beneath his crown, the curls that he had made some attempt to smooth earlier are a bit disheveled, not quite obeying him. She knows that running his fingers through them would just make it worse, the same way that tugging on his slightly crooked collar would only cause the other side to appear askew. 

"I just--" Michelle raises an eyebrow as he speaks, causing him to pause. He clears his throat, collecting his thoughts. "I wanted to make sure you were settling in alright." 

Michelle turns to her trunk, exhaling in a controlled breath. "You do not need to explain yourself to me." 

He is silent for a moment, and she does not look at him over her shoulder. Michelle rises with the old volumes in her arms, steeling herself as she turns to walk to the nightstand. When she turns and finds his doe eyes on her still, though, she cannot help freezing. 

"I am sorry if none of our clothing was to your liking," he says quietly, an earnest note in his voice. "If there is something you would like made, you can ask anyone here. They would love to help you." 

It is hard to focus when he speaks that way-- hard to hate him when he acts so concerned. But he is not Ned or Betty. He is not an innocent bystander to this; he is the reason she is here. She will be civil, but he will not lower her guard."I am just fine with this sort of clothing." 

No surprise crosses his face. No argument leaves his lips. Instead, he makes a move like he is going to step closer, then seems to catch himself. His words are measured, but Michelle can hear the honesty behind them. "Then we could make you more clothing like that." 

Michelle does not respond. She finally manages to uproot her feet from the floor, approaching the nightstand and setting the books onto it. She does not look her way as she begins to arrange them into a small pile based on size

"Is it Ned's?" She pauses, clutching the largest of the books, but it is only for a moment. "He mentioned that the two of you had some time to speak on the ride here." She slides it beneath the others, finishing the stack. 

Just when it seems like she is going to let his words fade into nothing, she turns. Her eyes are emotionless, her face stone as their gazes meet. "We did." A pause, then the words that she has been thinking all day leave her. 

"He is a good man." 

Something almost like a wistful smile hovers at the corner of his lips, causing Michelle's eyes to flicker to them. "I think so, too." 

Michelle stares into those gleaming eyes, inscrutable. Her own mouth tenses at the edges as her chest rises and falls uncertainly, and then she is moving to the trunk again. 

"Princess--" 

"Yes?" She responds too fast, pausing again and turning to him in one swift, angular movement.

He was not expecting such a quick response. In fact, by the way his mouth falls open slightly, Michelle can tell he was not expecting her to respond at all. He blinks several times to regain his thoughts and finally does so under her piercing gaze.

"I cannot help feeling like..." He trails off, but she does not make any move to help him. If there is something he wishes to say, he will have to decipher it himself. Still, she is not prepared for the words he settles on. 

"Like I have done something to hurt you." Michelle takes a breath sharply. To hide the movement, she turns back to the trunk, kneeling with her back to him once more.

After a moment of quiet, the king speaks again. "Please, if there is anything that I can do to make this adjustment easier, I would love to know." The same feeling that overcame her when Betty spoke of the wedding returns. Michelle feels like she might rupture like an open sore, spilling around her the exhaustion and frustration and bitterness like an infection.

"You have done nothing that you are not perfectly entitled to." Each word is precise, methodical. They fall into the air, measured droplets into a beaker. Calculated, familiar. 

"After all, you won." 

Quiet: a successful experiment. 

Michelle rises, holding a few more old bundles of parchment. She is halfway to the bed when the words come, all at once, like they have been spring-loaded. 

"I need you to know that I hold no ill will toward your kingdom." 

Hers are just as quick-- rounds from a musket. "I wonder if my people whose crops and livelihoods have been destroyed would say the same." 

"Please, Your Highness, you have to understand-" 

The parchment is set on the table beside the books in a rustling of torn edges. "That is where you are wrong, Your Majesty." 

"Peter." A note of quiet vulnerability. He is asking her to meet him, in the same way that Betty had. But they do not have the same rapport; Michelle has made certain of that. 

It is safer that way. 

She turns, slow and careful. When her eyes find those chocolate ones that capture her, she is not ready. But she is more prepared than she was, enough so that her words come after a short pause. "I do not have to understand anything." 

He is quiet, gaze unwavering, and Michelle feels more words rise up as a defense. "I have come, just as you wished. I am going to be your bride, and your queen. That is what you wanted." 

"I..." He catches his breath, and Michelle can see conflict shooting through his eyes. However, under her eyes, he makes the decision to step towards her. Something in his eyes feels like it is reaching for her. 

"It isn't, if I am honest." 

She cannot breathe. He has stolen all hope of that. 

If did not wish for her to come, did not want her to rule with him, then why accept her father's desperate exchange? For favor, in the eyes of his people? To further drive home a victory that had been inevitable for more than a decade? 

Either he is a sadist, a fool, or... No. 

She manages to force out the words with the ghost of the air in her lungs. "Then you are a crueler man than I thought." 

"I never meant-- I thought..." If Michelle is drowning in his ocean, then he is sinking in the mires of the fens that hide in the forests of her homeland. "This is for the people, Princess. Yours as well as mine." 

Michelle purses her lips as her gaze digs into him. "I said that you did not have to explain." 

"I know." He takes another step forward, and her heart rises in her throat at the desperate gleam of hope in his eyes.

"But I'd like to." 

For a moment, they are quiet, staring at one another across the room. Somehow, the distance feels impossibly far and yet still connected. Michelle feels like a spider in the center of a web, staring at the mayfly that is struggling across the yards of silk. If she wished, she could have him at her side with a flick of her wrist; she could break him just as easily. 

She can dash herself to pieces on the ocean rocks, or she can allow her people to live the rest of their lives struggling for survival like prey animals in the cruel forest. 

"I would like to rest." The words catch in her throat, and they are so quiet that Michelle thinks that she might not have said them at all. The thought is quickly disproven by the way his face falls, the flicker of hope swallowed by clouds of disappointment.

The expression is concealed in an instant, though not with the mastery that Michelle is using to maintain her countenance of marble. Though his face composes itself, Michelle can see the slight dip in his shoulders, as if a heavy weight has been placed upon them. He takes a breath, and when he speaks, his words are soft.

"As you wish." Michelle is too tired to examine how she feels about this unfamiliar respect for her desires. "I will ask someone to bring you dinner." 

Michelle swallows, and she managed a stiff nod if nothing else.

He collects himself, turning, and Michelle waits for the sound of his boots on the floor to fade. However, the rhythm of his movement stops in her doorway, and Michelle catches her breath. 

"If there is anything you need, anything at all..." 

Michelle shuts her eyes as if doing so will cause her heart to stop pounding like that of a startled rabbit. "I will ask." 

There is a slightly rustling; he is shifting his weight from one foot to the other, she realizes. Just when Michelle has finally caught her breath, his quiet words drift towards her, driving all thoughts of sleep from her weary mind. 

"Goodnight, Princess." 

And then he is gone, and Michelle is left with a pile of books and an ache in her throat. 

**Author's Note:**

> //To follow more of my content, follow @you-guys--are-losers on Tumblr! You can send me asks about this story or requests for other plots there.


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